Senseless
by mouse8
Summary: Neal is in serious trouble. This time it could cost him his life, and Peter might not be able to help him. Chapter 9 now up!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: White Collar is the property of Jeff Eastin and USA television, and is merely being borrowed here for recreational, non-profit purposes. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: T

Summary: Neal is in serious trouble and this time, Peter might not be able to help him.

Author's notes: The story is completely written, but not yet betaed. I will post as fast as possible, but my wonderful, ever patient beta, Susan, is in the process of moving house, so the chapters might not appear with my customary speed.

When I finished my last story, I promised the next one would be shorter. I lied. My muse took off in a completely unexpected direction, and my efforts to rein her in were in vain. Actually, I blame my son who suggested I brought Garrett Fowler back. I don't think this was what he meant.

I started writing this right at the beginning of Season 4, so this is based on a time line after Neal's return from the islands, but before the whole family shenanigans. There really aren't any spoilers other than that.

Senseless Chapter 1

Agent Peter Burke experienced no presentiment of disaster at the ringing of his phone. Its simple tones were no inherent harbinger of doom. The weekend had left him feeling mellow despite its inauspicious beginnings the previous week. His father had called to say that his mother needed to go into hospital for a minor operation and would he mind coming up. Further questioning and some consultation with El had revealed that it was truly a routine procedure, and his presence was needed more for moral support than for a potential farewell. El offered to perform the same function for him, but he knew she had deadlines coming up, so regretfully declined.

The surgery was on a Friday, so Peter took a long weekend and drove up after work on the Thursday night. To the relief of father and son, everything had gone smoothly, and Mrs. Burke was due to be released from the hospital the following day. Visiting hours were over, and the two men had returned home. Peter's father had insisted on fixing them both sandwiches, so the agent was sitting on the porch, allowing himself a moment to wax nostalgic. There was still a reminiscent smile on his face as he plucked the phone from his pocket.

"Peter Burke." He hadn't bothered to look at the display, but he recognized Diana's dulcet tones immediately.

"Hi, Boss."

Peter had left his customary instructions that he wasn't to be disturbed unless somebody died or Neal did something stupid. Either way, it didn't bode well, and he felt a slight sinking feeling in his stomach.

"What's Neal done now?" he asked, half as a joke, but it contained an edge of trepidation.

"It's not good, Boss. He's been arrested."

"Dammit!" Without conscious thought, Peter was on his feet, shoes describing a tight circle on the worn boards in what could almost be called a spin. "What the hell happened?"

Neal certainly had a deleterious effect on his language and his patience. Despite that, his first question was not now a repetition of, 'what has he done?' His immediate thought, perhaps due to Kramer's machinations, was that Neal's past had caught up with him. There was also a more inchoate fear that his CI had been engaged in one of his well-intentioned, but totally illegal, investigative shortcuts, breaking into the house of a suspect or pulling a con on the wrong witness. Only on the most haunted, paranoid, unconscious level did the idea that Neal had committed a cold-blooded crime fester.

It wasn't that he considered Neal rehabilitated. From impulse, bad judgment, bad company or even misplaced charity, Neal was always in danger of sliding perilously close to or over the border of legality. He deliberately skirted its boundaries, yet Peter truly believed his friend's moral compass had swung to a truer North. His sense of right and wrong was strong, just slightly askew from that written in the law books. Quixotic crimes had replaced shallow, selfish gain.

None of these rationalizations stopped the queasy feeling in Peter's stomach from boarding the express elevator to the basement. He was already calculating what he'd have to do to get his young friend out of jail this time. All speculation ground to a halt with Diana's next words. "We don't have all the details, but he was arrested for murder."

Incredulity and an inappropriate sense of relief startled a short laugh from him. "That's ridiculous. Neal's no killer. He never used violence in any of the crimes we even remotely connected him with. In fact, the nearest I came to catching him the first year was when he stayed to help a security guard who'd had a heart attack. I don't know what Neal's got himself into; I'll buy self-defense at the outside, but it's more likely that he's just an innocent bystander – to murder at least. I'll bet there's some other explanation."

Peter's forceful response had brought his father to the front door, so he shot the older man a forced smile and lifted a pacifying hand to indicate that he was fine.

"We have very little information at the moment." Diana's voice was tentative, an occurrence rare enough to ring warning bells. "But we do have the name of the dead man. It was Garrett Fowler."

Peter sat down abruptly. Luckily his meanderings had not taken him far from his seat, or he would have ended up on the floor. Garrett Fowler – maybe the exception that proved the rule - the one person Neal had tried to kill. In retrospect, Peter was not sure that had been his CI's intent. He'd seemed more focused on forcing a confession, or at least information, but anything was possible in the heat of the moment.

Peter remembered the terror of that moment, the poised knife edge of tragedy. It wasn't Fowler's fate that concerned him, but Neal's. Two lives would have ended there if Neal had pulled the trigger with intent, and Peter felt responsible. In the spirit of the promise of openness they had made, he had passed on the information that had triggered the events. He'd seen the brittle quality of Neal's smile in the van when he'd divulged the news, and sensed his desperation when he'd benched him. He should never have let Neal leave unsupervised.

Neal had been hanging over a precipice of both their making, and he was slipping out of Peter's grasp despite the agent's attempt to tighten his grip. It took every ounce of authority he possessed over the young man, and, more importantly, every fiber of the connection they shared, to pull him back to safety, from the destruction of his life and a perpetual future in jail or on the run. Afterwards, Mozzie's shooting had acted as more of a reprimand than anything Peter could have devised.

Peter was vaguely aware that Diana was still speaking, but the hand holding the phone had fallen onto his thigh, and his brain was too occupied to send a signal to lift it again. It made no sense; Neal had moved on. Moreover, he had accepted that Fowler wasn't responsible for Kate's death. Why had Fowler made a reappearance in New York? Peter hadn't kept tabs on the man. At the time he had been at something of a loss to know how to best deal with the errant agent. Lacking any concrete evidence against him, it had seemed best to cut him loose. Truth be told, Peter held a certain sympathy for the man which had only been enhanced by Elizabeth's kidnapping at the hands of Keller. By all accounts, Fowler had been a good agent before the death of his wife. Judging by Peter's own inclination to throttle Keller, his own reaction wouldn't have been so very different.

Neal had no more interest in Fowler, and with the death of Adler, he had gently, but firmly, closed the chapter of his life labeled 'Kate.' How had the two men crossed paths again with such devastating results? It was a place to start. He picked up the phone. "Diana, I'm heading back. I want to know everything that Fowler's done since he last left the FBI building, and everything that happened last night. I should be back in around five hours."

"Boss, you do realize that we're not officially on this case. It's NYPD homicide's jurisdiction."

"It may not be our case, but Neal's our CI. That makes it our business. I'll see you soon."

He turned to find his father standing beside him, a rueful smile on his face, Peter's suitcase in one hand, a paper plate with a sandwich in the other. "It sounded urgent, so I took the liberty of packing your things."

Peter took the proffered bag, then placed it on the ground to give his father a quick but heartfelt hug. "I'm sorry, Dad. It's an emergency."

"I can tell; I've seen that expression before." At Peter's raised eyebrow, his father elaborated. "In the mirror when you had that motorbike accident when you were 17."

There was something in that concept that Peter wasn't ready to examine, especially not at that moment, so he deflected it with humour. "That's when the gray hairs started, right? Well, at this rate, I'll be either bald from tearing out my own hair or completely grey within the year."

"I hope things work out, son. Keep in touch."

Peter remembered little of the drive back to the city. His mind churned with worry and speculation. He didn't believe Neal was guilty of murder, but even if he proved his friend innocent, the charges were serious and Neal's position in the department was precarious. Each time Neal ended up in jail or in serious trouble, it became harder to convince the review board that their deal was in the best interests of the FBI. So far, their unmatched closure rate and Hughes' backing had tipped the balance in their favor. Peter was now firmly convinced that Neal did not belong in jail. In fact, the thought of the danger and privations his friend would suffer there truly nauseated him. Not only could he not protect Neal there, but their relationship actively jeopardized him. Peter would go to considerable lengths to prevent that from happening.

He had just crossed back into the city when his phone rang again. Diana sounded harried and apologetic. "Sorry, Boss. The news just gets worse. Neal's disappeared from his holding cell. It looks like he's escaped."

"No, no, no, no!" Peter slammed the steering wheel in frustration. The car behind honked as he failed to move on at a green light, but Peter ignored him, his mind occupied with this new catastrophe. "What about his anklet?"

"It was damaged in some way during the confrontation and isn't sending a signal any more."

"We need to find him before anyone else does. I'm nearly back, and I've got a few ideas. I want you to find Sara and tell Jones to try to locate Mozzie. If that fails, contact June."

The hapless steering wheel received another blow before Peter eased back into the traffic. He had to find Neal immediately if he wanted to exercise damage control. Where would his partner go? Peter once told Kramer that Neal ran when under pressure, but like an Eskimo had different words for snow, there needed to be different words for Neal's flights. There were the genuine abscondments –- fleeing the law to countries without extradition - but he would only pull that now if truly guilty, and Peter was sure he wasn't. There were the short term bolts, temporarily evading the consequences of unwise actions. There were short skips of panic, flits for home.

Peter had learned to deduce the tenor of flight from his friend's mood and the mischief he'd committed. He knew that when Neal was accused unjustly, his running was a plea for help, and he was desperately hoping that Neal would run to him, as he had when Fowler had first appeared in their lives.

Urgency trumped discretion, and he slapped on the siren to make his way home through the night traffic as fast as possible unmolested by local police. Not wanting to spook Neal into more precipitous action, he turned it off as he approached the house. Everyone else on the street had already come home to roost, and there was nowhere to park, so, leaving the lights flashing as a precaution, he abandoned the car double-parked and sprinted to the front door. He flung it open, startling Satchmo, who had crept illicitly onto the sofa.

"Neal!' he shouted but there was no response. He called again, and the dog participated in his master's madness by contributing cheerful barking. The noise echoed emptily in the space, but Peter ignored the implications and strode into the kitchen, glancing around before running upstairs. He checked the bedroom that had been designated as Neal's for those nights when they returned too late from a stakeout to swing by June's.

Equally despondent and frustrated, he stared around the pristine, vacant room. Refusing to surrender to either emotion, he trudged downstairs, trying to work out Neal's next most likely destination. Satchmo's nose nudged the back of his leg, a slight vibration indicating a hopefully wagging tail. Peter's hand fell automatically to ruffle his ears, and his palm brushed something unusual. His pulse quickened at the sight of the paper wrapped around his dog's collar. He detached it and unfolded it carefully. Written in Neal's inimitably stylish script was one word – "Sorry."

He's missed him. Neal had sought him out, needing his help, and he'd failed him. Peter's heart slammed against his ribs in an alarming jump as he turned the page over and noticed the discoloration on the back – a smear of blood. Not in sufficient quantities to suggest anything life threatening, but providing notice that something was wrong.

What would Neal try next? Peter shoved the paper into his pocket and, in the same motion, pulled out his phone. El didn't usually work this late, but knowing Peter would be absent, she was maximizing her time in the office.

"Hi, Hon. Is everything alright?"

Her voice was immediately soothing to his frazzled nerves. "I'm fine," he reassured her hurriedly, "But Neal's in trouble. I need to contact Mozzie." He knew the little man had asked her not to divulge the number, so he added. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't an emergency."

"It's 555 8939. But I don't think he's around. He said something about Paris."

"Thanks Hon. You're wonderful." He really loved his wife. She didn't even waste time asking for explanations. He quickly dialed the number she'd given him, but there was no response.

"Dammit!" Peter returned to intense contemplation. Neal was running but doing so reluctantly. He didn't want to leave, so he'd tried to find Peter. Where would he go next? Peter sat down heavily on the sofa, phone still held limply in his hand. He was blind to his surroundings while his mind rifled through thousands of shared memories, searching for hints of likely exit strategies.

NYPD would be searching for their missing suspect, so Neal couldn't take the obvious transit routes out of the city. If Mozzie were truly out of country, it ruled out his seemingly endless sources of offbeat transportation, but Peter wouldn't put it past the two of them to have an emergency route preplanned. Mozzie especially liked back up plans for any situation. It probably involved hopping on an obscure freighter for some banana republic. Of course, just to be contrary, it was just as likely to be a luxury cruiser. Or maybe Neal would find a place to hole up until interest in him had died down, then make his escape.

This line of enquiry was getting him nowhere. Trying to predict Neal's travel plans had never been the way to catch him. Neal could be intensely practical, but he was also sentimental. Peter had always found him through his attachments to those he cared for – Kate, Ellen Parker, Mozzie and even Peter himself. Neal was most predictable in his loyalties and affections. Kate was gone, and he had Sara covered, although he didn't think the relationship between the two was strong enough to pull Neal back. Neal had gone to Elizabeth before, as Peter's proxy, but she would have mentioned it if he'd been in contact. It seemed like another dead end.

Neal had come to his house for help, so he wanted Peter to find him. Even without his anklet on, the two-mile radius might provide a psychological barrier, a symbolic proof of his good intentions. It was Saturday. Maybe Neal was waiting for him at 'Friday,' Mozzie's old safehouse. It was worth a shot.

Peter gave Satchmo a last pat and locked the door behind him. As he returned to his car, a few curtains twitched, but that seemed to have been the only interest the flashing light had generated.

Halfway to 'Friday', Peter changed his mind. It just didn't feel right. When in trouble, Neal's instincts were to run, not hide. There were a handful of places where Neal had run before and Peter had followed. There was the small airstrip where 'Mentor' had arranged for him to depart the country, but Kate had died there, and Peter couldn't see his CI voluntarily revisiting the location. Slightly more likely was the airfield where Jones had been captured. It might have more positive associations, but it was hard to arrange an illicit flight on such short notice.

It was possible that Neal had hot-wired a car – it was certainly within his skill set, and it offered greater flexibility and anonymity. Perhaps he was waiting in the obscure location where they'd rendezvoused after Peter's 'borrowing' of the Lamborghini. It still didn't match all the items on Peter's mental check list, and it didn't trip his internal Neal sensor, that sixth sense that clued him in to his partner's whereabouts and well-being.

There was only one place that did – the tram to Roosevelt Island. It marked the boundary of Neal's radius and was an unlikely exodus from Manhattan. It was also where Peter had expanded his radius, allowing Neal to right an old wrong, before following him in time to render vital aid, symbolically choosing his partner over his old mentor and the force of the FBI. It all fit and suddenly Peter's Neal sonar was pinging a satisfied refrain.

This time, Peter wanted to draw no attention to himself. He'd betrayed Neal's position to the authorities once before, and it was a mistake he wouldn't make again, but the sands of time were running out and every grain weighed heavily on his foot. He had to consciously ease back on the accelerator every mile. He parked in an inconspicuous space, pulling on a baseball cap before exiting the car, trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible.

He scanned the small crowd there, working a visual search pattern, but to no avail. He moved casually further into the area and finally, in the viewing area where he'd last seen Kramer glaring stonily at him, he spotted a familiar figure. Wavy black hair was concealed under a baseball cap that was almost the twin of Peter's. Casual clothes hung off him in an unfamiliar manner, but Peter would recognize him anywhere. Less familiar was the tension that ridged his shoulders while his eyes were fixed on the other side of the river.

Relief branched warmly through Peter's veins, and he took a moment to relish the sensation, taking his first unconstrained breath since Diana's first call. He knew the moment Neal sensed his presence by the way he relaxed his stance and his head slumped forward. Peter sauntered forward, adopting a similar pose to his friend, arms resting on the iron railing and looking out over the water.

"Nice view," he commented as a neutral opener.

"I was thinking it was getting a little boring."

"Ah, well, there's a reason for that," Peter said sagely. "There's no one doing death-defying stunts up there." The first two fingers of his right hand gave an illustrative hop. "Things would liven up if that happened."

"I hear that riding on top of the tram is the only true way to travel," Neal offered gravely.

Peter looked up and out, remembering the jolt of true terror he'd experienced as he'd realized his friend's intentions. After seeing it accomplished, he'd give it ten out of ten for sheer daring and creative brilliance, but a negative seventeen for self-preservation. "If they gave Nobel prizes for self-destructive decisions, you'd be on the plane to Sweden right now."

He was no longer referring to Neal's daring jump, and they both knew it. Neal however, evaded the issue. "Actually the peace prize is issued in Oslo, Norway. I think the award you are referring to is the Darwin award. However, I don't qualify because you have to be dead to be nominated, you know, removing yourself from the gene pool."

"It's these perfectly priceless pieces of trivia that make me want to keep you around." It was a not-so-subtle declaration of Peter's intentions. He risked a glance sideways at his partner, but the shadows and the peak of Neal's cap concealed his expression.

Peter turned round, now leaning backwards with his elbows against the railing. He figured one of them should keep an eye on potential trouble approaching, and it was better if Neal kept his face hidden. Without looking like he was doing more than shooting the breeze with a friend, he watched a couple of beat cops walk past. He said nothing more, allowing Neal to digest what he'd already said and start the next conversational gambit.

"Are you going to arrest me?" Neal's voice was low and impossibly young.

If there were any doubts on the issue in Pete's mind, they were settled at that moment. His decisions might be damaging to his career prospects, but his priorities had changed in the last few years. He smiled softly, at peace with himself. "I believe I'm retiring from the business of arresting you, although I reserve the right to keep my options open. Besides, I'm on leave right now. I'm not going to arrest someone when I'm off duty. What's more, I haven't been to the office, so I'm not caught up on the latest developments."

"Then why are you here?"

"Would you believe it's just an amazing coincidence? I just happened to wander by and met my best friend and partner here."

Neal gave a low pained laugh. "Is that the best you can come up with? I can practically see your nose growing from here."

Peter glanced down at the referenced appendage, causing him to go temporarily cross-eyed. He scratched his lower lip with the edge of his thumb. He'd known that Neal wasn't going to make this easy for him. His partner kept his defenses up at the best of times and, poised to run, wary and scared, he'd raised deflection to an art form. However, Peter theorised that the thicker the armor, the more chinks existed, and he carefully aimed a verbal arrow right for a vulnerable area.

"You haven't heard my most important reason for not arresting you yet."

Neal said nothing, but Peter could feel that every cell was tuned in to his frequency.

"You didn't kill him."

It was a palpable hit. Peter could see its impact in the shudder that ran through his friend's body and the white knuckles that grasped the railings. Neal had so rarely been offered unqualified trust, at least by those who saw beneath the surface.

"Then you understand why I have to go," he forced out hoarsely.

"On the contrary, that's exactly why you have to stay," Peter returned promptly.

"Peter, they are accusing me of murder!" In his agitation Neal's voice rose, and he took a quick glance around to make sure no one had overheard before continuing. "It would be life in prison and I couldn't...I just couldn't. Either I'd escape, which would leave me in the same position as if I ran now, or I'd..." He broke off with a savage twist of his lips which left Peter in no illusion as to the alternative.

"I just couldn't do it," he repeated. "You have no idea what it's like. You can't imagine."

This time it was Peter who winced. At the time, he had genuinely believed that a check to the young man's headstrong, destructive career was vital. If Neal had continued in the direction he was going, it was only a matter of time before a security guard's bullet or a vengeful mark ended his life, or he became more hardened to the distress of others and lost his principles. Either way, considering the variety and extent of his crimes, a four-year sentence had been remarkably light, no more than a slap on the wrist.

Part of Peter believed still believed these rationalisations, but a much larger part, the part that called Neal partner and friend and cared for him so deeply, now recoiled at the cost of those years. "You're missing the point. You're innocent. You're not going to jail."

Neal shot him an incredulous look. "I hate to burst your idealistic bubble, but there are innocent men in prison."

"None that I put there," Peter shot back defensively.

"This isn't your case. You won't be allowed to work on it."

"You think that's going to stop me?"

"Don't you think I've damaged your career enough for one lifetime? Do you want to go back to filing boxes?"

Stung, Peter grabbed his friend's arm and pulled him around until they were face to face for the first time. "I think I've already proved that you mean more to me than my career. Have I done anything to make you think otherwise?"

"I didn't mean it like that," Neal protested. "I just don't want to screw things up for you again."

Peter was no longer listening. He could feel a constant tremble ripple through the arm he held, and even in the artificial light he could see that there was something wrong with Neal's color - an unnatural pasty gray. As he peered closer, he could also see a glazed, unfocused look in Neal's eyes.

Neal tried to pull away, but the agent held him firmly, but gently. "You're hurt!"

"I'm fine," Neal stated automatically.

"What happened to your promise not to lie to me?" Peter couldn't help wondering where his friend's inability to admit vulnerability came from. He hoped Neal had run to his mother with a skinned knee when he was young, that it was a recent development, merely part of a conman's exterior.

"I'm not," Neal insisted. "It's not that bad, just a bump to the head. I've had worse."

That was one of Peter's least favorite assertions to hear. "Neal, look at me."

With a put-upon sigh, his friend complied. Peter had enough medical experience to come up with a quick diagnosis. "You have a concussion. How did it happen?"

Neal's veneer of composure cracked. "I don't know. I don't remember. That's why I have to go. What am I supposed to tell the judge? 'Yeah, I know my fingerprints are on the gun and powder residue shows that I fired it, but I didn't do it.' I just don't see that going down well. But I didn't, Peter. I swear I didn't. I had no reason to. I just don't remember what happened."

This changed everything. Peter turned back towards the water again, his posture no longer displaying its earlier tranquillity. "I believe you. How much time have you lost?"

"I don't know. Ten or fifteen minutes, I suppose."

Some memory loss wasn't unusual with a head injury, but it did complicate the matter. "Do you remember why you were there, why you went over to his place?"

"Yes, I remember that. It's not amnesia. I just don't remember how I got the blow to the head and what happened afterwards. Anyway, none of that matters now. I have to go. It's 3 a.m. and the last tram leaves in 30 minutes, and I'm going to be on it."

"No, you're not." Peter's denial was automatic.

"Are you going to stop me?" On the surface it was a challenge, but underneath it, Peter heard the plea and understood. Neal wanted his partner to override his instinct to run, to give him a reason to stay. He heard once again his friend's voice from the hanger, 'You are the only one who can change my mind.'

He rocked back on his heels, torn between the answer he wanted to give and the answer he should give. "No, I'm not. You're a grown man, and you have to make your own decisions. But I know you don't want to run."

Neal's laugh was bitter. "Oh, Peter. You underestimate both my survival instincts and my peripatetic desires."

"No, I don't," Peter denied firmly. "I know you, and I know it might be your first instinct, but underneath, you're tired of running. It might have been necessary once, it might have even been fun, starting life anew, with fresh possibilities, leaving behind betrayals and failure. But now you have everything to lose and you've already lost too much."

Neal's trembling had increased, a constant vibration that Peter believed was no longer entirely physical, so he slipped his arm up around his partner's shoulder, offering comfort, but also a tactile reminder of what he had to lose. He didn't need to enumerate the losses; judging by the moisture on Neal's cheek, he was already doing that himself.

Peter was playing dirty pool, and the guilt tasted acid in his mouth. He couldn't even claim his actions were entirely altruistic. The six weeks he'd spent without his partner the last time Neal had run had taught him that life without Neal was considerably dimmer, duller and filled with formless worry. Neal had added an extra dimension to his life, one he hadn't known he'd needed. He might claim it was full of exasperation, but it was also full of fun, excitement, and the trust and love of friendship.

He was ready to acknowledge exactly what Neal meant to him and how far he'd go to fight for him. Alleviating his guilt was the knowledge that he was mostly doing this for Neal. Going on the run with a murder charge hanging over his head, every hand would be turned against him; his life would be miserable and almost certainly short. Peter only had one chance to fix this, and it had to be now.

However, it was obvious to him from the taut muscles under his hand, that Neal had not reached the same conclusion. Indecision quivered through the long muscles of his legs and the set of his spine. Maybe it was because of the head injury, but clearly instinct was overriding logic. Peter needed to give him something more concrete to hold onto. He turned Neal to face him again, a hand on each shoulder as much to steady his friend as for any other reason.

"Listen to me. I guarantee that you won't go to jail. I promise you that. I will clear you."

Neal's eyes flickered to meet his, desperate hope fighting with disbelief. "You can't promise me that, Peter."

Facts were irrelevant against Peter's insistent conviction, his mouth set with assurance. "Yes, I can. You know me. You know my record. You think I'm going to let this one slip when it's so important to me?"

There was a shuddering exhale. "The evidence says I'm guilty."

"Your head injury says something else went on there."

"They don't give anklets to killers, Peter, even if it was self defense. It's over."

Peter wanted to shake him, but remembered the head injury in time. "I'm asking you to trust me. I won't let anything happen to you."

Crystal blue eyes were dull with despair. "Of course I trust you. You've always had my back, but this is different. It's not your case. They're not going to let you work on it. Anyway, it's already too late. I'm already a fugitive. I broke out of my holding cell, remember."

Peter wasn't going to let details stand in the way of necessity. "It's not too late. I can fix that. You're injured and didn't receive the proper medical treatment. You were confused and scared and went looking for me. You surrendered yourself to me, a Federal officer. I'm going to take you to the hospital and have that diagnosis verified. We can make it stick."

For a moment, Peter thought he'd won, but with the catastrophic timing of a reprieve call to death row a minute after the switch has been pulled, the speaker system announced the final tram of the night. Neal tore himself free. "I have to go!" he gasped.

"No! You have to understand." Peter played his final card, brutal but true. "Neal, if you leave, you can never come back. You'll have burnt all your bridges." Hand empty, Peter was left with a last desperate gamble. "I'm not making this decision for you. I'll wait in the car."

On impulse, he pulled his friend into a hug, aware that this might be the last time they saw each other. It was hard to let go, but he released him with a final pat. "You have a choice, Neal. Please make the right one - for both our sakes."

He walked away, resisting the impulse to look back.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks so much to everyone who took the time to review - especially to those who were anonymous, since I couldn't thank them personally. This story took me over a year to write, so it's really gratifying to receive feedback.

Senseless Chapter 2

Peter felt lightheaded as he eased himself stiffly into the car. It had been an extremely long day, and the intensity of the last few hours had eroded his normal strength, cutting to the bedrock of his coping capacity. He leaned back wearily, not wanting to see the departure of the tram, or witness the figure of his best friend leaving forever.

He tried to swallow past the sudden knot in his throat. He knew the hollowness he was feeling inside was merely a taste of the emptiness that loomed on the horizon if Neal had left. Had Peter just made the worst mistake of his life, not pushing harder to make Neal stay? He'd told Kramer, 'if you box him in, he'll run,' so following his own advice, he'd given Neal space to make the right decision. But maybe Neal wasn't in any condition to make a decision of that magnitude. Maybe, Peter should have made it for him. Maybe, banging his own head on the steering wheel a few times would help.

Why was he sitting here passively? If he left the tram terminal and drove around on the bridge, he might intercept Neal on the other side. His friend wasn't going to make it far with that head injury. He might have already collapsed, and Peter could scoop him up and cart him off to hospital.

But Peter still didn't move, some kind of desperate faith keeping him rooted to the spot. It occurred to him, very belatedly, that his career was probably over. His superiors would take a dim view of his championship of an apparent murderer. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to care.

The car door opened, and the vehicle dipped as someone slid into the seat beside him. Peter kept his eyes closed, not wanting to reveal the tears of relief that prickled behind his lids. When he could trust his voice, he said, "I knew you'd make the right decision."

"I wish you could have shared that insight with me." There was too much exhaustion to allow asperity into the words.

"Then why did you stay?" Peter asked softly, shamelessly taking advantage of Neal's vulnerable state. The young man was always more open when tired or injured.

"You were right. There will be plenty of opportunities to run, but only one to stay. I just couldn't bring myself to leave..." It seemed like he was going to say more, add something to the last sentence, but Neal broke off with a pained half-gasp that Peter had never heard before and would pay good money not to hear again. The CI's hands were hovering near his head as if he wanted to grab it but even the slightest of touches would be too painful.

"Dammit, Neal. The next time you tell me, 'I'm fine' when you're actually so far from it, a telescope wouldn't help you find it, I'm...I'm going to sit you down in front of an all-day marathon of Tiles of Fire."

"Noted." It was no more than a whisper, and Peter thought it slurred around the edges.

He switched on an interior light. "Let me look at your head."

There was a general assenting noise, but Neal made no attempt to remove his cap. Peter reached out, using both hands to minimise the tug on the scalp, and gingerly plucked it off to reveal a sodden, bloodstained bandage.

He thought he'd rather exceeded his quota of 'dammit, Neals' for the day, and his friend probably didn't want to hear any explosion of emotion in his fragile state. Gritting his teeth to prevent that or any other expletive escaping, he managed, "Hospital, now."

As Neal flinched minutely away from the harsh tone, Peter grasped him gently by both shoulders. "Easy, kid. I'm not mad at you, but that's got to hurt."

Neal managed a shrug without using his shoulders. "You've always said that I was so hardheaded nothing could hurt me there."

"I guess I got my anatomy wrong. Your skull appears to be vulnerable. It's what's underneath that must be resistant to learning certain concepts." His gentle hands belied the sharpness of the response.

A heavy eyelid lifted sufficiently to reveal a baleful bloodshot eye. "Now I remember why I decided to stay. Without a regular dissection of my character and constant sarcasm, my life would be a wasteland of boredom."

Peter gave a quick nod of relief and satisfaction, and the corners of his mouth quirked. That was better. A Neal who was griping and sarcastic wasn't straying too close to coma territory. Peter wanted to stand solidly between Neal and the concept of brain damage, but for now, he'd have to settle for keeping his friend alert and functioning until he could get medical help.

"I know that medical wisdom is to slap another pad over one that's been soaked through, but gravity has nearly taken care of this one, so I'm just going to replace it." Peter took another sterile bandage from the first-aid kit. "Here, hold this in place, and don't let your brains leak out."

Neal looked up at him plaintively. "Don't let my brains leak out, Peter."

Peter tried his best to resist the appeal in those cerulean eyes and snorted. "I'm not sure it would make an appreciable difference if they did," he said absently, caught up in the logistics of trying to fasten a bandage to someone's head. "Actually, it's not your brains you should be worried about, but your hair. They'll have to shave a good portion off to get at that cut."

That earned him the strongest reaction he'd had all night. Neal's head came up, almost smacking Peter in the face as the younger man stared in horror. "No hospital," he declared definitively.

"The alternative is that I shave your whole head and stitch it myself." Peter finished his ministrations and took a moment to assess his partner. "Wow, Neal, that's an interesting shade of white."

Neal seemed to forget the previous conversation in pursuit of this new distraction. "Eggshell, ivory, pearl, magnolia?"

"Gray," Peter decided.

"That's not a shade of white, you Philistine. Although you could see white as a shade of achromatic grey."

Peter leaned over and fastened the seat belt over his friend. "Shades of Grey. Isn't that a book?"

"Yeah, Elizabeth's read it. You should ask her about it sometime."

"I'll put it on my to-do list,' Peter promised dryly.

Neal closed his eyes, his body slowing slumping. "Hey, stop that. Neal, listen to me. Tell me about different shades of grey and...and chiaroscuro. Everything about it."

Peter slipped into gear and started for the hospital, hectoring and cajoling all the way, prompting if Neal faltered and seemed about to fade into unconsciousness. He counted it as a win, albeit a marginal one, that Neal was still talking, sporadically and mostly unintelligibly, when they arrived at the hospital, the conman clearly worn to his last reserves.

Peter's knuckles were white as his hands gripped the wheel, but he resisted the temptation to race through the entrance to the emergency room parking lot and slam on the brakes. Out of deference to Neal's injuries, he slid in carefully. Neal was now quiet and so utterly still that it sent a bolt of panic flashing through Peter, fear tingling in his extremities.

"Neal...Neal." He snapped his fingers in front of his friend's face. "Don't pass out," he ordered. "Come on, stay with me just a little longer."

Hazy blue eyes blinked owlishly at him, and Peter patted him encouragingly on the shoulder. "I'll be right back."

A yell for help and a flash of his badge brought assistance running, and soon Neal was loaded on a stretcher and heading into the ER. His eyes were closed and his skin sweaty and pale. It was a testament to his stamina and endurance that he had stayed on his feet all this time. Peter had seen before the way that Neal's pain and weakness were eclipsed by his stubbornness, determination and sheer bullheadedness, helped by an edge of adrenaline. But now that the young man had promised to stay and face the charges, he was no longer in flight mode, and his energy had drained as if someone had pulled a plug.

Peter kept pace alongside the stretcher, worried eyes fixed on his friend's lax features, contributing relevant information when asked. However, at the swing doors to the ER, a flat palm on the chest stopped his progress and forcibly separated them. "Sorry, Sir, you can't come in here."

Under different circumstances, Peter would have pushed the issue, plying badge, authority and his legal standing as Neal's handler to stay with his partner. Only the knowledge that he could protect Neal better by staying outside and making phone calls allowed him to acquiesce to his exclusion.

He exhaled slowly and allowed his shoulders to slump, drawing in every ounce of patience he didn't feel. His first instinct was to call El, both because her voice always grounded him, and because she would be waiting for an explanation for his earlier hurried conversation. However, he had another more important call to make if he wanted to justify Neal's faith in him. He needed to concentrate to marshall effective arguments, and the hospital was too distracting, so he retreated to his car, leaning against the warm metal of the hood. It was an unsociable time to wake someone, and maybe not strategically smart when he wanted a favor from that person, but it couldn't wait.

He took a last steadying breath and dialed. "Reese, it's Peter."

There was a slight hesitation on the line, then his boss spoke, voice slightly thick from sleep.

"Peter, has Agent Barrigan brought you up to speed on the situation? I have to say, it's not looking good."

"Actually, Sir, it isn't as bad as it looks."

There was another pause, then, "Enlighten me."

"Neal didn't run." Peter winced as he said it, realising that the statement lacked both accuracy and credibility.

"So I am to believe that Neal is sitting in his cell, concealed by an invisibility cloak." The words were as dry as dust.

Peter pursed his lips in chagrin. It was a stupid misstep, an uncharacteristic mental clumsiness brought about by stress and exhaustion. He scrubbed a hand roughly over his face to clear the cobwebs from his mind. "It would be more precise to say that his intention was not to evade the police or to escape justice."

Understandably, Hughes still sounded doubtful, although he dialed the sarcasm down a notch, which Peter hoped was a positive development. "Keep going."

"Neal has a bad head injury. He's suffering from a nasty concussion and significant blood loss. I find it reprehensible that NYPD didn't take him immediately to a hospital."

"I agree that it is a matter of concern, and I'll have it looked into, but Peter, that hardly excuses his actions."

"He's totally disoriented and barely coherent. He can scarcely be held responsible for his actions when he can barely remember his own name." With only the smallest pang of guilt, Peter realised that he was applying Neal's own method of manipulating information. Nothing he was saying was an outright lie, but with selective reporting of facts and muddying of the timeline, he was conveying an impression that wasn't entirely true. Maybe Kramer wasn't so far off the mark when he told Peter he was becoming Neal. It was almost funny how little the concept currently bothered him, partly because he believed the converse was also true, but mostly because he believed that Neal was, in his own way, honorable, loyal, caring, brave and smart as a whip and there were worse things to be compared to.

Neal had taught him that justice and the law weren't necessarily the same thing and that sometimes it was cowardice to be satisfied with the latter at the expense of the former. Right now, justice dictated that Peter bend the truth a little to save a friend.

"Do you have him in custody?"

"Yes, Sir. We're at Mercy Hospital where Neal is undergoing treatment. However, as I said, Neal wasn't trying to escape. He came to me. He came to my house." Again, it was a solid slice of truth, just not the whole pizza.

Peter could almost see the paradoxical look of exasperated forbearance on his boss's face as he asked, "What is it you want me to do?"

Peter felt a surge of relief spiced with triumph. "I would appreciate it if you could call the Marshals and NYPD and explain the situation."

"Sell them the situation, you mean."

Any bubble of satisfaction Peter was feeling was popped by the sharpness of Hughes' tone. The senior agent had not reached his position of high authority in the New York office by being a pushover.

Peter persisted. "I'll have a medical report on your desk by noon. This is all verifiable."

There was a deep sigh at the other end of the line. "Even if this works, you've barely scratched the surface of the trouble he's in. The charges are serious and the evidence compelling. You need to give some thought to cutting your losses on this one, Peter. How many times are you going to ruin your career for this kid?"

Peter suppressed a surge of anger at the suggestion he abandon Neal to the system, sacrificing his partner for something ultimately as insignificant as a job. There was also a strong sense of deja vu summoned by the words which it took him a moment to pin down. Then he remembered that he'd made a similar suggestion to Neal concerning Kate on their first case together. Neal had been about as appreciative of the advice as Peter was now. It was a disturbing parallel on many levels.

Peter couldn't deny he was immensely relieved that Kate was out of Neal's life for good even if he regretted the manner of that departure and how much it had hurt Neal. However, he was aware that Neal would still deny the accusation that she had damaged his life with the same vehemence that Peter would for Neal.

Peter concentrated on the most obvious difference. His career might have suffered several setbacks, first with the literal explosion of Mentor in their lives and, more recently, with Neal's abrupt departure for sunny, unextraditionable climes on the heels of Peter's vouching for his character. However, on the flip side of the coin, it had been Neal's capture that had originally launched Peter's career on its meteoric rise, and Peter was under no illusion as to where to lay the credit for their unequaled closure rate.

Separately, Peter and Neal were smart, two volatile elements, but put them together with the catalyst of a challenging case, and a new compound was formed with explosive results.

Peter had no intention of getting into a discussion about the relative benefits that Neal had afforded his career when there were more important issues to argue. "Reese, you know as well as I do that Neal is no murderer. Violence and guns have never been his MO." Peter had mostly kept Neal's dexterity and proficiency with weapons out of his reports. Neal might be adept at their use, but his aversion to them still stood.

"However, he has a history with Fowler that cannot be ignored," Hughes pointed out.

Peter was unsure just how much his Boss knew about that checkered history. The details of their final confrontation had also failed to make it into his reports, and that had been Peter's first major omission on his friend's behalf. He'd had a front row seat to Neal's devastation at Kate's death, and understood how grief could drive a man to uncharacteristic actions, and, ultimately, no harm had been done. Fowler himself had been in no position to press charges, and Diana had been willing to abide by Peter's decision.

"Nothing that would justify murder," Peter insisted staunchly.

"Did Caffrey give you an explanation for his presence in Fowler's apartment?"

Peter recognised a trap, intentional or not, when he heard one. "He's in no condition to be answering questions at the moment. He said he didn't do it, but any other testimony now is impossible with his head injury."

"It's not our case, Peter," Hughes warned him. "We have to let NYPD conduct their own investigation."

He continued to issue dire warnings of the consequences of interference, but Peter was no longer listening. A little blond nurse, her hair tucked up in a bun, had come running out of the hospital, looking around, clearly searching for someone, and intuition told Peter it was him.

"I have to go." He shut the phone abruptly and strode toward the nurse.

"Are you Peter?" she asked tentatively. It was just three words, but the phrasing of the question and the use of his first name spoke volumes.

"That's me," he confirmed, already moving back to the hospital, panic thrumming through every nerve. "What happened? Is he all right?"

He spared the nurse a glance, but he was already forging his own way into the ER, an unstoppable force in jeans and a t-shirt. He had experienced first-hand the unpredictable tragedy of even a surprisingly innocuous head injury. A young class mate of his at Quantico had slipped and hit his head on the obstacle course. There had been no blood, and the cadet had even finished the training exercise, but by that night, he had slipped into a coma and five days later, his parents had pulled the plug. Apparently, there had been epidural bleeding which had quickly led to ultracranial pressure, which had compressed the brain stem.

With creeping horror, Peter remembered that one of the main symptoms of this type of injury was the 'lucid interval' when the victim appeared totally normal before descending into unconsciousness and, frequently, death. The memory caused Peter's throat to close and his heart to accelerate as if gearing up for a coronary.

Neal couldn't die! Peter's feelings of loss, during Neal's impromptu flight from Kramer, had coiled painfully round his heart, worry and misery slicing deep, but at that time, Peter had been sure with a grim and determined certainty that he'd find a way to reunite with his partner. The thought of Neal dying, of him never coming back, was too painful to contemplate. The young man had infiltrated his life and was inextricably entwined in it like ivy around an oak, roots planted deep, enmeshed in the fibers of both family and work. They shared an interdependence, a symbiosis that benefitted both, and to have that ripped away would tear Peter apart in the process.

The little nurse, trotting to keep up with his urgent stride, waved aside the security guard who had previously prevented Peter's entrance into the inner sanctum of the ER. That was providential because Peter wouldn't have hesitated to sweep him aside, the urge to protect closely knit to a fierce desire to rip up every threat in his path.

As Peter slowed to get his bearings, the nurse slipped ahead. "This way." He followed her past several small rooms shrouded with privacy curtains. Considering it was now the early hours of Sunday morning, the place was bustling, and Peter was forced to temper his headlong pace in order to dodge the streams of industrious personnel. It was an anomaly to see people merely standing, crowded tensely outside a room, and Peter knew instantly that Neal was inside.

His dive for the room was intercepted by a young man who introduced himself as Dr. Kernsey. "You're Peter?"

Peter pulled out his ID with a practiced movement. "Agent Peter Burke. Is he all right?" His attempt to move forward was adeptly blocked.

"Before I can discuss his medical condition with you, can you explain your relationship with Mr. Caffrey?" The doctor glanced down at the notes he held.

Peter restrained his impatience. "He's my partner and friend. You'll find me listed as his next-of-kin, and I am authorized to make medical decisions for him if he's incapacitated. Now, can you please tell me what's going on."

"We've been unable to assess his condition properly."

"Why not?" Peter braced himself for the answer. He should have told them to make sure that there were no windows or alternate exits in Neal's room. Even barely conscious, Neal could pull a disappearing act, but that explanation was preferable to some alternate scenarios he could imagine.

Kernsey hesitated before answering cautiously. "Mr. Caffrey is agitated."

"He was completely out of it when I brought him in. He didn't have the strength to lift a paintbrush to scratch his nose. What happened?"

"We're not sure what triggered his unsettled behaviour, but it seemed to be some sort of traumatic flashback, either to the attack in which he was injured or to some other situation when he felt threatened. I was leaning over him to take some readings when he cried out, rolled off the gurney, then scrambled underneath it before using it to barricade himself into a corner. Despite his injuries, he was remarkably quick. Nothing he was saying made any sense, and I'm not sure he knew where he was. Your name was the only thing that was intelligible. Keeping personnel in the room was causing him more distress, so I pulled everyone out."

Peter nodded grimly. "I'll go in and calm him down."

"You need to understand that with this level of disorientation, he may not even recognise you. Also, although he's shown no signs of violence so far, he might lash out in panic, so be careful."

"Neal would never hurt me," Peter stated with complete confidence. "Please keep everyone out until I have the situation contained."

Peter took a fortifying breath and gripped the curtain, slipping slowly inside with an economy of movement, not wanting to give Neal cause for alarm. He wasn't sure what he expected to see, but the heartbreaking sight inside robbed his lungs of breath, the air around him suddenly thick, hot and impossible to breathe.

It wasn't a large room, little more than a cubicle, but Neal was plastered to the wall on the far side. Blood was everywhere, drying on Neal's face and dripping down from his head wound. His lips were pressed so tightly together that they were merely a pale slash in his ashen face. His eyes, glassy with shock and pain, were unfocused as they darted around the space, searching for a tangible threat.

It was hard to believe that he hadn't collapsed in a heap on the ground, but his feet were set strongly on the tiled floor and his back against the wall, so his body was braced between two planes of the room. He reminded Peter of a tightly wound, injured snake, too weary to strike and lacking venom, but still ready to stick a fang in anyone unwise enough to venture close in an attempt to unwind him from his protective coil.

In reality, Neal's only defense was the emesis basin he held in front of him like a shield which might have been funny if it weren't for the knuckles of the hand grasping it blanched a desperate ivory white. A miasma of distress seasoned with the residue of terror lingered about him like a second skin.

Peter didn't move except once to press damp palms on his pants' leg. He was hoping that Neal would acknowledge his presence without having to take further action, but that was looking increasingly unlikely. Visual cues weren't working, so he'd try talking. He took two cautious steps further into the room. "Hey, Buddy."

There was no response. "You know, when this is all over, I'm going to show you the definition of 'fine' in the dictionary, since I don't think you grasp the true meaning of the word. If I'd known how badly hurt you were, we wouldn't have been standing around talking. I wouldn't have been offering you choices. I would have grabbed you by the scruff of the neck and dragged you here if necessary."

Neal gave no indication that he heard a word. He seemed to be on the shore of unconsciousness, capable only of listening to the crashing of its waves as they rolled in to claim him.

Peter tried one more time, choosing something guaranteed to spark a response if Neal were capable of comprehension. "Do you remember the time we broke into the bank together? I think that was the most fun I ever had. We should do it again some time."

Neal didn't even blink an eyelid. "Damn it, Neal, you really are out of it aren't you? We've got to beat this, because I can't imagine working with anyone else now. Despite the fact that you're more irritating than a bed full of bugs, you're the best partner anyone could ask for."

As he delivered the speech, Peter slowly approached his friend, gently pushing aside the gurney that separated them. Sight and hearing had failed, which left touch as the only viable sense with which to reach his partner. His hand hovered uncertainly, not sure how best to make contact. He remembered the doctor's warning that Neal might lash out, but Peter was more concerned that he might hurt his friend with an incautious touch. He thought it was probable that if he broke Neal out of his reverie, the injured man would crumple entirely, because there was nothing keeping him upright except sheer will.

Finally, Peter's hand closed around Neal's upper arm, a good position to restrain or support as necessary. A tremor ran through Neal's frame, seemingly the prelude to a tectonic collapse, but the young man merely strengthened his stance, tightening his grip on the basin.

Peter brought up his other hand, warding it away carefully. "Easy, tiger. Death by vomit bowl would be an embarrassing way to go."

"Pe..Peter." Neal's voice was wrecked, weak and husky, far from his usual melodious tenor, but he dropped the emesis basin and grabbed at Peter as if he were the only piece of driftwood in a raging river. Peter automatically brought up his other arm behind Neal in support, the practical embrace completed with excellent timing, since Neal's legs buckled, and Peter was forced to gather him in, countering the force of gravity that tried to yank his friend out of his arms, bracing him against his own body before the young man could injure his head further by hitting it on the floor or wall.

Neal was muttering something incoherent, but Peter was concentrating on keeping them both upright. His eyes fell on the abandoned gurney, which wasn't surprising since it occupied nearly half the space of the room. He needed to maneuver Neal's dead weight over to it in such a way as to minimize the jostling of his injury.

"Okay, just relax," he instructed, cushioning Neal's head against his chest to hold it immobile. He took a moment to stabilise himself, then reached down with one long arm to scoop Neal up behind the knees, cradling him into a bridal carry.

"Don't get any ideas," he grumbled, holding his partner securely, despite the fact that Neal's compact frame was heavier than he expected. "There are no thresholds in sight."

Luckily, it took only three deliberate steps to reach the gurney where he deposited his burden with exquisite care. His attempt to straighten up afterwards was thwarted by a hand wrapped securely in his jacket, and he desisted immediately. "Easy kid," he soothed automatically, catching the errant hand in his to ease the stranglehold. "I'm not going anywhere."

Neal was squinting up at him in an effort to counter the haloing effect of the fluorescent lights. For that moment, his expression was stripped of his usual defenses; there were no masks in place, no facade to hide behind. He was unguarded in a way Peter had never seen him before, showing profound relief tinged with wonder but also desperation.

"P'tr...thought...dead." Neal's speech was too slurred and distorted to be easily understood, and this progressive deterioration of his symptoms caused a terrible tightness to constrict Peter's chest.

He patted Neal's shoulder awkwardly and tried to offer the reassurance he thought his friend was seeking. "You're going to be fine. You are not going to die. You may be dented, but you're salvageable. The doctor's going to come in and examine you and you'll..."

A yank on his jacket pulled him closer to the gurney. "N't me...you."

Peter frowned, trying to interpret that cryptic utterance. "Me? Neal, I'm fine. I'm not the one in the hospital. Well, I am, but just because you're here. You're the one who looks like a wardrobe reject from a Friday the 13th movie."

Neal shook his head minutely. "W's blood, bl'd, you gone."

It wasn't just the tripping over vowels and the drawing out of words that made the speech incomprehensible - the concepts behind them seemed totally confused. Peter couldn't figure out if this was an accusation that Peter hadn't been there to protect him, but that seemed to be a projection of the agent's own feelings of guilt, or if Neal's injured mind had crossed certain wires and was confusing him and Fowler.

He patted Neal's shoulder. "Your brain is so scrambled right now. Look, I'm sorry I wasn't there to stop this before it all happened, but if you're somehow getting me confused with Fowler then I'm insulted, but you get a free pass on that for now because, at the moment, your brain cells seem to have parted company with your cranium and gone AWOL. I'm going to get the doctor."

It might not have been the most solicitous response, but in Peter's experience, Neal tended to respond better to sarcasm than sympathy. Another attempt to leave Neal's side resulted in another tug on his jacket. "Or I could stay."

"D'n go. Dang'rous. Ring, h'd t' r'ng."

Neal's forehead was covered in a thin layer of sweat, a slick background for the rivulets of blood that trickled down from sodden locks of hair. Peter wiped at one with his thumb, rerouting it before it could drip into his friend's eye. This uncharacteristic vulnerability was triggering every protective instinct Peter had, and the mention of danger ramped them even higher. Up until then, he had been too busy dealing with the fallout of Neal's arrest and then his injury to consider the possibly lethal consequences of Neal being a witness to a murder.

He placed a hand on either side of Neal's face. "I know this is very confusing, but it will all make sense once the doctors have sorted you out." Sensing Neal's imminent dissent, he overruled it gently but firmly. "Neal, you need to trust me. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I will stay with you, but we've delayed this long enough. The doctor has to check you out now."

He could feel Neal's acquiescence in the relaxation of muscles under his hands, and he raised his voice slightly. "Dr. Kernsey, could you come in now, please."

Neal's eyes slid shut as the young doctor entered, and Peter would have thought his partner had lost consciousness if it hadn't been for the hand still gripping his clothing. He himself kept a grasp on that forearm, telling himself it was to prevent Neal from taking another stop, drop and roll under the gurney. His gaze remained intently fixed, with palpable concern, on his friend's face. Neal's only reaction was a flinch at the light shone to check the reaction of his pupils.

"I'm just conducting a quick neuro exam, but I've seen enough to have me worried, so I've already booked you in for a CAT scan." The words were directed at Neal, but were more for Peter's benefit, since Neal now seemed to have ceded his battle with consciousness, even his tenacious fingers finally losing their grip on Peter. It didn't occur to Peter, however, to relinquish his own hold.

"Doc, this evening Neal witnessed a murder, and now I have reason to believe his own life might be threatened. I'm going to need to stay with him at all times."

Kernsey didn't even pause to consider that, preparing Neal for transportation. "That's no problem in theory, but the best I can do for you during the CAT scan is a position in the observation room. Actually, it's a good idea for you to be there. If he becomes combative again, you can talk to him and calm him down.

A nurse pushed aside the curtain, and the gurney started to move. Peter kept pace, then, realising that the doctor wasn't accompanying them, broke step to ask one last question of the man. "There's something else I need to talk to you about. Do you have a minute?"

"I've got a couple more patients I need to see, but I'll catch up with you."

It seemed like an easy time line to follow, yet shortly time would lose all form and function, splintering off in jagged, incoherent fragments that punctured as they darted past. Peter remembered that there had been the observation room for the CAT scan, Neal's inert body looking small and vulnerable strapped to the examination table. It had only taken about ten minutes and then, in a blur of activity, Neal was gone.

Peter couldn't say if he'd been sitting in this room with its pastel walls and bland artwork for a minute or a day.

He'd been agonising about losing Neal to prison or life on the run, but it appeared that there were worse things ready to steal his friend away from him. Epidural hematoma. The words were rhythmic, almost poetic. Neal could probably have told him if they were assonant or consonant or onomatopoeic, but Neal wasn't available right now. Instead, the eight syllables swarmed destructively like a pathogen in the bloodstream, shutting down higher reasoning and creating a crawling, neon paralysis of fear.

Peter hadn't moved since someone kind, but ultimately invisible, had led him to the waiting room. He'd been sitting in the plastic chair, immobile, his arms resting inertly on his knees, staring at what could be construed as an abstract pattern on the tiled floor. He was constrained not only by the news, but also by his own helplessness.

Peter Burke didn't do helpless. When El had been kidnapped, he'd shouted, even screamed, then come up with the best damn plan to save his wife from one of the smartest villains he'd ever encountered, improvising as needed along the way. When Neal had been forced on the run, hunted by a sociopathic, but sanctioned, bounty hunter, Peter hadn't hesitated to break the rules, go off the reservation himself to rescue his friend and bring him back under his own personal protection in New York.

There was nothing cerebral or practical that he could offer Neal now. He couldn't even keep his promise to stay with him, since he had no knowledge of where his partner was except the vague location of 'surgery'. Peter was left with the antithesis of the action he craved - waiting.

Waiting was something else Peter Burke didn't do. On a slow day, he conducted surveillance, devised strategies, investigated, double-checked his findings, researched, staked out suspects, interviewed witnesses, brainstormed with his CI, and at the end of a long day, he went home to his beautiful wife.

The passivity of waiting chewed relentlessly at his nerves, further developing the coruscating sense of guilt that he hadn't taken action earlier. His body gave a clonic jerk at infrequent intervals, as if to express its own frustration at his inactivity.

He had a reputation for being unflappable under pressure, whether he was under verbal fire from an aggressive defense attorney or literally under fire with a gun held three feet from his head. He had learnt that, by staying calm and controlled, he could get the job done and keep his team safe, but it seemed that the converse was true as well. Working, keeping his focus, allowed him to maintain a measure of emotional equilibrium. Without that focal point, his vaunted composure was slowly unraveling, fraying painfully in untidy strands of guilt, grief and panic, with only a fading hope providing the stitching to keep him together.

It had occurred to him that he didn't have to suffer through this ordeal alone, that there were people whom he should call, who deserved to know what was happening, but despite the sign on the wall informing him that he was in a cellphone-permitted area, the devise remained unused in his pocket.

He wasn't sure exactly why that was, but even if self-analysis had been a strength of his, he was too sleep-deprived to pinpoint the reason. It was partly because he wanted to have more definitive news before burdening anyone else with the knowledge, but there was something else too, murkier and more amorphous that he couldn't grasp, but which was shaded with failure and misery, paradigms of duty and responsibility.

He wanted to talk to El, she was his raison d'etre, his anchor, but an anchor only helped you to stay tethered in a storm, prevented you from being swept away by strong tides. It did nothing to help keep you from sinking. The Captain might go down with the ship, but he didn't invite more passengers on board to visit Davy Jones' locker with him.

Maybe it was that simple, that he just he couldn't deal with anybody else's grief on top of his own. The constant high level of stress throughout the night had scraped his nerves raw and drained his normally boundless supply of energy. He was holding the staunch remnant that was left in reserve for Neal. He had none to spare to bolster the morale of his team.

Despite his exhaustion, he had to resist the urge of the part of him that was all Federal agent to launch his investigation. He yearned to start the work of clearing his friend's name and to find the person who had dealt him such a grievous injury. But Peter, the friend, had no intention of being evicted from his vigil, and no logic or even the drive of revenge could remove him.

He ended up sitting all alone, carved like a statue out of granite, his grief a foreign object lodged deep inside - the man of action doing nothing, simply waiting to find out if his friend would survive, and, if he did, would there be irreversible brain damage - would he still be Neal Caffrey?


	3. Chapter 3

Senseless Ch 3

Sitting still in a cool room for a protracted period of time was not conducive to future mobility, but Peter was oblivious to any discomfort. There were magazines on random topics on the end table near his elbow, but they had been ignored. His mind ran obsessively, hauntingly, examining the evening from every angle, compulsively replaying Neal's every word, expression and gesture and castigating himself for taking so long to pick up the signs of Neal's deteriorating condition.

Hindsight might be 20/20, but it was rarely instructive. However, the alternative track in his mind involved endless calculations of the ratio between the optimum duration of brain surgery versus survival rates. Was it good news that he'd heard nothing at this point, or did it signify possibly fatal complications?

Reducing an unbearable situation to an equation should make it tolerable, yet despite being a mathematician by training, skilled at juggling numbers, Peter was constitutionally incapable of hiding behind them, of doing anything less than staring a situation squarely in the face, calculating the human cost first and foremost.

It made him an excellent leader, his team trusting him implicitly, knowing he would never consider them expendable or collateral damage. That incorruptible sense of responsibility that made him so beloved to his team could be his Achilles heel, but he would accept any pain that stern sense of duty brought as a reminder to be more careful, more thorough in his preparations the next time.

He glanced up at the clock again. Although it seemed in general as if time were escaping like grains of sand trickling through his clenched fists, the hands of the clock were the only proof he had that there had been any progression at all.

His gaze was snagged before it met the floor again by the approach of a figure in green scrubs. Recognizing Kernsey, the ER doctor, he rose to his feet involuntarily, swaying in a loopy figure eight as every system in his body objected to the abrupt relocation.

Now that there was a possibility of news, he wasn't sure he wanted to hear it, and his body chose to cooperate with that disinclination. Kernsey was speaking, but Peter was unable to hear him as blood beat in his ears and thundered through his brain.

A gentle hand guided him back towards his chair, but he resisted, needing that one piece of control over the situation.

"Agent Burke?" The white noise that had been clogging his ears must be clearing because he heard that.

"Is it over...the surgery? Did he make it?" Peter might be a lapsed Catholic, but his internal mantra of 'please, please' sounded very much like a prayer, a reversion under extreme pressure to a primitive plea.

"I'm sorry, I..."

"No!" Despite bracing himself for the worst, Peter staggered back a step, the denial wrenched loose as anguish pulsed through him.

"Wait, wait!" This time Peter didn't resist as he was hustled into the chair. "I was apologizing because I have no news."

"Oh, thank God." Peter was too relieved to be embarrassed, and his voice still shook as shock reverberated through the hollow metal of his being. "There's no news?"

The other man shook his head and apologized again for the misunderstanding.

Peter took a deep breath, pulling on his depleted but still indomitable endurance, fortifying himself for a longer wait. "So, is this..." the words got caught in his throat, and he had to start again to keep his voice steady. "Is it normal for it to take this long, or should I be worried...more worried," he amended dryly.

"Well, brain surgery isn't something you want to rush, you know. Seriously, no, this hasn't been an abnormally long procedure. What I can tell you is that Dr. Hussain is an excellent neurosurgeon with considerable experience. Your friend is in good hands."

"So?" Peter prompted, hoping for more in the way of reassurance.

Kernsey sighed. "Just tell me what you want to know. I can give you the statistics for survival from this sort of injury."

Peter summoned up a smile. "Don't bother. I'd never bet against Neal. He has a way of making the longest odds irrelevant. He'll make it." It was spoken firmly, but he was aware that he was trying to convince himself more than the doctor.

Kernsey nodded an acknowledgment that wasn't necessarily agreement. "Look, I could do with a cup of coffee. Can I get you one?"

"Thanks." Peter was reminded once again that it had been over 24 hours since he'd had any sleep. Caffeine would help dissolve the befuddlement of prolonged wakefulness.

It was a couple of minutes before the young man came back and deposited a hot cup in Peter's hands. The warmth was as comforting as the aroma and, at first, he just held it for an appreciative sniff. He took a sip and set the mug down on the end table.

"Tell me about afterwards."

"After the operation?" the doctor sought clarification.

"Yeah." Peter transfixed him with a stare of painful intensity, unable to ask the question he really wanted answered. "What help will he need?"

"Agent Burke..."

"Please call me Peter," he interrupted.

"Peter, I can't tell you if there'll be any permanent disability. The brain is an extremely complex organ, and there is no standard prognosis, as each case is unique. I can tell you that the fact that there was a lucid interval is actually a positive sign, and we got him into surgery fairly quickly. In the short term, there are likely to be mobility issues and maybe speech problems. Seizures are also a possibility. However, there's a good chance that, with therapy, Neal will make a good recovery. But you must understand that no one can answer this question with any degree of certainty until we can examine him once he's regained consciousness."

It was impossible to imagine Neal any less vibrant, the spark in him diminished, any less athletic, his hands any less dexterous, his voice anything less than smooth and articulate. It was this failure of imagination, rather than optimism, that made Peter declare firmly, "He'll be fine. I'll make sure he gets what he needs."

The doctor's face softened, and he said with as much curiosity as approval, "The two of you are very close."

The word 'close' sounded alien to Peter's ears, as if it were derived from a foreign language, but it conjured up pictures of Neal by his side. There were no words to describe the relationship he and Neal shared. It was unique and defied explanation and categorization. How could he explain it to any outsider when he wasn't sure he understood it himself?

"I've got used to having him around." He almost winced as he said it, his heart lurching out of place at the sudden fear that this would be Neal's eulogy.

Their relationship was a book of complex history with pages irrevocably turned, yet each left an imprint on the one beneath it even if it were only the faintest shadow. They had been criminal and law officer, pursuer and quarry, yet that had merely been the preface. The picture on the cover, exposed for everyone to see, was that of a CI and his FBI agent handler, but everyone knew you couldn't judge a book by its cover.

Neal was his partner with all the concomitant loyalty and trust that word entailed. It worked maybe in an unprecedented way, but certainly with unprecedented success. They fit together like water and land meeting on the coastline. Peter was the solid and, at first glance, unchanging cape, with Neal the ever-fluid ocean, sometimes stormy, sometimes calm, but never still, most of his activity concealed under the surface. On a daily basis, the water might seem to beat futilely against a cliff or yield gracefully, but over a period of time, the shape of the coast line changed, not becoming less than it was, but broken down in some places and built up in others. Peter knew that his partnership with Neal had changed him. Opinions seemed to differ as to whether this was an improvement or not. As for the changes he'd wrought in Neal, in Peter's more pessimistic moments he wasn't sure there were any. That didn't seem to matter now.

Almost as an apology, he offered the doctor the only truth he was sure of. "He's my friend."

In the privacy of his own mind, Peter would also admit that Neal had become something of a surrogate son. The mathematical improbability of their ages didn't detract from the very real love, responsibility, pride, worry and frustration that Peter felt. Like many parents of adult children, he struggled continually with the concept of how far he could and, more importantly, should protect the grown man from the consequences of his own actions.

The doctor nodded sympathetically. "That's good. He's going to need friends."

"He's got a good support network," Peter affirmed, happy to focus on a more positive goal, already mentally devising a schedule that would provide Neal with the assistance he would need.

"Do you have further questions for me?"

Peter started to shake his head, but then remembered his original reason for asking the doctor to join him. With Neal currently in surgery, it felt irrelevant, but he had to keep faith in his friend's eventually recovery and set the groundwork for his return to the department. It was hard to shift gears, to retrieve his earlier worries from when Neal's very survival was in the balance.

"Earlier this evening," he began wearily, "there was an altercation - we don't have any details, but we know the results. A man was shot, and Neal received his injury. NYPD arrested him for murder and took him into custody where he received no medical treatment. Somehow he escaped, found me and surrendered himself into my custody. From a medical perspective...his actions..." He paused to find the right words to frame his question.

The doctor picked up on the thread of his enquiry. "I can certainly say that his judgment would be impaired. I can also state categorically that if he hadn't received treatment, if you hadn't brought him in when you did, he would have died."

For a moment, Peter couldn't speak, the narrowness of that margin of error paralyzing his vocal chords. If Neal had left on the tram, he would have sealed his own fate. Nausea churned thickly, and for one of the first times in his life, he regretted the coffee he'd ingested. He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to the doctor. "Would it be possible to write that up and send it to this email address? It could make the difference between Neal spending his recovery here or in a prison hospital."

"I'll get on it." The doctor stood, taking a moment to stretch out some kinks in his back. He hesitated a moment. "Can I call anyone for you?"

Peter blinked in surprise. "No, I need to make some calls myself. Thanks, Doc. I appreciate everything you've done for Neal."

Kernsey started to leave, but then turned back. "One last piece of advice. It could be a while before your friend is back on his feet again. Don't exhaust yourself at the first hurdle. Get some rest."

Peter heard an echo of Neal's voice, 'It's a marathon, not a sprint. Trust me, I know.' After the departure of the doctor, he pulled the phone out of his pocket. He felt more positive after the young man's visit, having a clearer idea of the problems they were facing. It felt similar to the times he'd identified a suspect and was ready to metaphorically wrestle them into submission.

Putting duty first, he called Hughes, this time calculating correctly that his boss would be at the office. "It's Peter."

As always, the no-nonsense senior agent got straight down to business. "Are you still at the hospital? I've been in contact with NYPD, and they're not happy. The detective in charge of the case, Samuelson, is on his way to..."

"Call him back and tell him not to bother," Peter interrupted flatly.

"If Caffrey's run again, it'll be disastrous for your..."

A dizzying wave of tympanic fury broke over Peter with incapacitating force, leaving him reeling, blind to everything but his internal dialogue of misery, guilt and fear. "Neal is in surgery," he spat out. "They're drilling a hole in his head to relieve the bleeding in his brain."

There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end, then Hughes spoke more apologetically than Peter had ever heard him before. "Peter, I'm sorry. When you said Neal was injured, I assumed..."

"You assumed I was just covering for him, that I was lying." There was an uncharacteristic vindictiveness in Peter's words but he didn't know if he was trying to punish himself or Hughes. He couldn't even pinpoint exactly why he was so angry at his boss. "They don't know if he's going to make it."

Speaking the words out loud inflated the concept with a validity it hadn't previously contained, and the anger abruptly drained away, leaving only anguish stranded behind it. There was silence at the other end of the line, so Peter continued woodenly. "If he survives, I want him under 24-hour surveillance by people I trust for his own protection. I believe that as the only witness to a murder, his life is in danger."

"I'll inform your team. I'm not sure how much we can do officially, but I'll work on it. Peter...this is a bad business all around. For what it's worth, I hope Neal's okay. Please keep us notified of his progress."

Peter closed his phone to finish the conversation, then turned the device over and over in his hands, the smooth edges rubbing over rough calluses. Without letting himself think, he flipped it open again, his thumb finding '1' on the speed dial. It was answered immediately.

"Hon?" El's voice was tight with anxiety, but it was still balm to his raw emotions. But at the same time, he realised why his subconscious had been so resistant to the idea of calling her. He had no secrets from El. He was totally psychologically visible to her and could never maintain any sort of barrier between them. With that one word, she opened a channel to everything he been trying to suppress, sweeping away the coping strategies he employed to deal with an intolerable situation.

For a moment, he couldn't speak, the only sound his breath, ragged and out of rhythm.

"Peter?" El's alarm intensified, compelling the agent to fight past his own emotions and concentrate on her.

"I'm sorry, Hon. I'm fine, but I'm at Mercy Hospital because Neal...Neal..." His throat closed on the words, stopping him temporarily, but he forced himself to continue. "He's hurt. They have him in surgery right now."

"I'm on my way. I'll be there as soon as I can. I love you."

Inexplicably lighter for that promise, Peter shut his phone. He knew he was ricocheting wildly between the violent emotions of grief and anger, a loose pinball flipping uselessly between bumpers. He had to find his customary self-control because there was nothing productive to be gained by this self-indulgence.

He got to his feet again, slightly unsteady at first, and tried to channel his thoughts into a more constructive pattern. The small room soon proved inadequate for his long legs, so he relocated to the corridor. Its mostly deserted length proved advantageous, allowing a stride that expedited his thinking process.

His talk with the doctor had presented him with an even more pressing timetable for proving Neal's innocence. The thought of Neal, postoperative, still suffering the effects of his head injury and appallingly vulnerable, thrown in with the prison population was utterly unendurable. Peter would apply every morsel of legal force, and any extra-legal help Mozzie could supply, to make sure that didn't happen.

As Peter walked and planned, he didn't stray far from the waiting room, hoping that someone would bring him news before long. He took one brief break in the restroom, splashing water on his face in the hopes of reviving his flagging spirits, while avoiding the haggard face in the mirror, but he quickly resumed his perambulations, which took him past the corridor that led to the nurses' desk on that floor. The sound of Neal's name being spoken from that hallway brought his attention around immediately.

A man was leaning up against the desk, and Peter didn't need to see the badge in his hand to classify him immediately as a police officer. He was thick set, several inches shorter than Peter, though he probably outweighed the agent. His head was closely shaved, and fairly recently judging by the white of the scalp showing through the bristle. In contrast, he had bushy eyebrows tinted a rusty brown. Puffiness under his eyes suggested that he, too, had spent a sleepless night, probably in search of his missing fugitive.

'Welcome to the club,' Peter thought with smug, but concealed, schadenfreude. Recognising that antagonising the officer in charge of Neal's case would be shortsighted and detrimental to his friend's prospects, Peter pasted on a smile and, instead of decking the man, as his instincts dictated, he held out a hand for a perfunctory shake. "Detective Samuelson? I'm Special Agent Peter Burke. If you come with me, we can talk in private."

He could sense the other man hesitating, wanting to take control of the situation by setting their location, but Peter didn't look back, giving the other man no choice but to follow. Without creating undue resentment, he'd established his own authority.

Samuelson didn't waste any time on pleasantries once he had entered the room. "I'm here to take Caffrey into custody," he announced with an edge of belligerence.

"I'm sorry, that won't be possible right now," Peter countered blandly, resisting the urge to ask if the detective didn't mean 'back' into custody. It was ridiculous that he could take so much pride in Neal's ability to escape any captivity, when at other times it irritated him to the point of apoplexy.

The cop pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and waved it in Peter's face. "I've got a warrant that says differently."

"Excuse me," Peter maintained an expressionless voice that it would be hard to construe as either polite or insolent. "I think you've misunderstood. At the moment it is impossible to take Caffrey into custody because he is in the middle of surgery."

"There's nothing wrong with him that an aspirin and a bandaid won't cure. What are you trying to pull here? He's faking it." The detective crowded closer, but Peter didn't back down, the epitome of a solid unflappable rock, the proverbial immovable object.

"Having a hole drilled in your head is taking verisimilitude a little far, don't you think?" The dryness in his tone would have dehydrated an ocean.

"What?" Samuelson took a step back, although whether he was ultimately repelled by the unexpectedness of the concept, Peter's composure or his vocabulary, Peter couldn't tell, but the agent was grateful for the space. It was taking every iota of control he possessed, and every lesson on dissembling he'd learnt from Neal, to resist the urge to put his fist through the man's face, and physical proximity wasn't helping. He successfully kept his statements and tone reasonable, but his body language was starting to betray the loose control he was holding on his temper. Unbidden, his hands had crept to his hips, his shoulders were pushed back and his jaw set.

"The neurosurgeon is currently drilling a hole in Caffrey's head to release the pressure of blood seeping from his brain." Peter wasn't actually sure of the finer details of that statement. He'd been unable to comprehend any words after the doctor mentioned 'drilling a hole in the skull'. "They don't know if he'll survive." It cost him everything to keep his voice steady on that last sentence.

"This is ridiculous." To his credit, the detective did seem shaken. He broke eye contact for the first time, taking a few short steps of agitation or frustration across the room before returning to Peter. "This doesn't make sense. I'm telling you, he was fine. He was bleeding a bit - even a small cut on the head makes a mess, but the kid was as cool as a cucumber. He just lawyered up and sat there smugly. Wasn't even the usual TV 'I've got the right to remain silent,' crap, the kid full-on quoted the Fifth Amendment and half of the New York legal code."

This was new information for Peter. "Did he speak to a lawyer?"

"No, I'm not sure he ever got round to calling one."

That made sense if Mozzie were out of the country. "Did you take a statement from him?"

Samuelson reacted to the not very subtle accusation with indignation. "Of course not. What the hell do you take me for? I'm not an idiot, and I'm damn good at my job. I don't beat confessions out of suspects, and I don't do tainted evidence. I left him there, handcuffed to the table and when I came back the handcuffs were sitting exactly where I left them, but he had simply vanished like some ghost. No one saw him go, he just disappeared."

Peter again felt a surge of misplaced pride, but also a twinge of sympathy with the man's bewilderment. He took a deep breath and tried to take a mental step back from the situation and acknowledge the possibility that Samuelson was a good cop, doing the best job he could. It would make life so much easier if he became an ally in the search for Fowler's killer.

He tried to sound more helpful and confiding than critical when he said, "If you focus on Caffrey for this, you're doing yourself a disservice. He's not your killer."

The detective dismissed the advice with a contemptuous wave of his hand. "You weren't there. I know what I saw in that room.''

"And I know Caffrey," Peter persisted. "I was the one who caught him originally - for bond forgery." It was an attempt to establish both a sense of fraternity and a sense of perspective on Neal's criminal tendencies.

"I've seen his jacket."

"Then you know he's not violent. I chased him for three years, and I've worked alongside him for nearly as many, and I can guarantee you that he's one of the least violent people you'll ever meet. He uses his wits; he uses his silver tongue and his charm and, if necessary, he runs away. He's not a fighter, and he hates guns."

Samuelson shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Come on, Burke. Don't be naive. I'm not accusing him of being a psychopath or a serial killer, but everybody's got a snapping point. Anybody can kill if you push the right buttons."

That ran uncomfortably close to the truth of the history between Fowler and Neal, but Peter wouldn't win any points by explaining about Kate and the fact that Neal's apparently one murderous button was no longer an issue. Instead he challenged the detective to expand on his theory. "So, what is his critical motivation? What changed a mild-mannered white collar criminal into a murderer?"

"I don't know yet, but I'll find out. Meanwhile, I'll settle for means and opportunity. I have a feeling the jury will find his presence in the apartment and fingerprints on the gun quite a convincing argument in favor of his guilt."

Peter felt anger swelling in his chest for the hundredth time that day, and his words came out sharper than intended. "And if that guilty verdict was a miscarriage of justice that wouldn't bother you as long as you got a conviction?"

The detective huffed in disgust. "If I had a dollar for every time someone told me that little Johnny couldn't have done it, I'd be a rich man."

Peter gritted his teeth. "I'm merely asking you to keep an open mind, to accept that it's possible you don't have the full picture yet."

"What other possible interpretation could you realistically come up with? There are two men in a room, one is dead and the other has his fingerprints on the gun. That's pretty open and shut to anyone who's not a conspiracy theorist nutjob."

"With the severity of the head wound Caffrey suffered, there's every possibility that Caffrey was unconscious and is being framed. I'm fairly sure that without some motivation, I can sell a jury on that for enough reasonable doubt for an acquittal."

"Now you listen to me." Samuelson crowded him again, jabbing a finger aggressively forward. "This is my case. The FBI has no jurisdiction here. You have no jurisdiction."

Peter was not impressed by the detective's attempts at intimidation and stared coldly at the offending digit still pointing at his chest until it was removed. "It's your case," he acknowledged, successfully maintaining a polite tone, but there was an undercurrent of steel beneath. "It was friendly advice, offered in case you wanted more than just a pro forma clearance of a case. As long as your investigation is thorough and fair, I have no argument with it."

Then he used his full six foot two to assert his own authority. "However, understand this. If you attempt to railroad Caffrey or treat him with any assumption but innocent until proven guilty, I will ensure that it's the last case of your career."

Samuelson took a step back, obviously giving a moment's consideration to the question of how much power Peter could wield, but on the whole he didn't look too threatened by the confrontation.

"Okay, Burke, you've said your piece. I'll be back for Caffrey as soon as I can arrange for a medical transfer."

Maybe it wasn't intended as a threat, but a red haze of fury scalded Peter's vision, and he moved to intercept the detective's departure. "Caffrey's not going anywhere. He's staying right here in my custody until he gets a clean bill of health from his doctors." There was no velvet glove wrapped around the steel in his voice. It was harsh and forbidding.

"Give me one good reason why would I do that?"

The anger dancing across Peter's nerves as bright as lightning begged for a physical outlet, but he channeled it into a more legal threat. "Because if you lay a hand on Caffrey, if you impede his recovery in any way, if you bring charges against him for escaping, or if he, God forbid, he dies in that room, I'm going to slap a lawsuit on you before you can say police brutality."

"I didn't lay a finger on him," Samuelson scoffed a little uneasily. "I even offered him medical attention when I brought him in, but he turned it down. You can't lay this one on me."

"It never occurred to you that a man with a head wound isn't in the best condition to make that decision? You broke protocol, and I have a doctor's report saying if he hadn't been brought here to the hospital you'd have had a dead man on your hands. You were responsible for him getting medical help, so you are responsible if he dies or he suffers brain damage. I know his lawyer, and this will be personal," Peter finished savagely.

Samuelson's parting shot was to invite him to do something physically impossible, then he stormed out the room. Peter realised that his hands were balled into fists, and he shoved them deep into his pockets in an effort to ignore the tremors that shook them, appalled at his own lack of self-control.

A movement in the doorway caught his attention, and he turned towards it, his face still dark with rage, but the blue eyes that met his, wide with distress and apprehension, were those of his wife.

"El?" He closed the gap between them in two strides, gathering her up and wrapping himself around her, breathing her in as if she were the very oxygen he needed for survival. Her hair tickled his cheek, and her perfume teased his nostrils, and he wanted to fill every sense with her to banish the memories that haunted his mind, at least for a few minutes.

Sensing his need for comfort, she held on tight. "Any news of Neal?" Her voice was muffled from where it was buried in his shoulder.

"Nothing yet." He shut his eyes, refusing to let his mind dwell on the reasons for that. Luckily, El didn't pursue the topic.

She couldn't remember ever seeing her husband that angry. His altercation with Fowler had been over too quickly for her to register anything except the satisfying, swift blow that had knocked the OPR agent backwards. Even under stressful circumstances, Peter's steady temperament and self-restraint forestalled such outbursts, so now it was like being a personal witness to mild-mannered Clark Kent slipping off his glasses and shimmying into his tights before bounding off to jump tall buildings.

She could feel the slight tremors that shuddered through his body at irregular intervals, fear and fatigue clearly taking their toll. It was worrying enough for her to comment, "You're shaking." Her hands were gently stroking and kneading the taut muscles in his back in an effort to help him relax.

"Mmmmmmm." It was an unenthusiastic acknowledgment of her observation without any endorsement of the truth behind it, as if he hoped she'd drop that topic, too.

However, El disengaged from their embrace, pushing him gently away as a sudden thought struck her. "Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm not. El, I promise you I'm fine." He winced involuntarily as he used Neal favourite adjective, and that didn't help his case.

"Peter?" she asked insistently, worry cutting a vee in her brow.

He realised she knew nothing specific about the events of the last 24 hours, and he needed to remedy that oversight. "I'm not hurt," he repeated. "Come and sit down." He drew her over to the chairs, never relinquishing his hold on her hand. "I'm just really tired, and I'm...angry."

He caught her up on the night's crises as quickly as possible. "So," he concluded. "I was just so mad at Samuelson, I was a split second from taking a swing at him."

"I saw," El nodded, lips pursed down. At his dismayed expression, she clarified. "I was just outside, but I didn't want to interfere."

"I'm sorry, Hon. That wasn't my finest hour. I know better than to let him get to me like that. If a member of my team had managed a confrontation so badly, I would have been forced to reprimand them. I've been taunted by killers, thieves who've got off on technicalities after years of work, and I haven't lost it like that."

"But it wasn't a criminal. He's supposed to be on the same side as you," El observed shrewdly.

"It's not just him I'm mad at." He used his free hand to try to reduce the headache that had built to the size of a pointy pyramid behind his eyes. "I'm mad at Neal for sitting there insisting he was fine when he was bleeding into his brain. I'm mad at myself for not realising how bad things were. I nearly took Hughes' head off for suggesting my career was more important than Neal." He pulled her closer with a wry smile. "You are the only person I'm not mad at, it seems."

El drew his head down and dropped a gentle kiss on his lips. "I think that it's not so much those people you're angry with, but the whole situation, and it's totally understandable. You believe in the law, and you've spent your life defending it, but you also believe in doing what's right, and right now those two beliefs can't coexist. You're frustrated with the system because you're part of it and you have faith in it, but it's letting you down. You feel betrayed."

Peter listened intently, wondering why he'd waited so long before calling her. How could he have forgotten that although she was his anchor, when he was sinking she also became his chief bailer and life-preserver, keeping him afloat until he could do it himself.

"El," he confessed, "I'm scared." He kept his eyes fixed on their conjoined hands where their fingers interlaced in an ouroboros of comfort. This gave her the opportunity to conceal her shock and keep her expression encouraging. She'd never heard her husband utter those words before. He always faced even the most desperate situation with staunch courage and a relentless optimism.

She knew that a large part of his positive approach was a front he erected as a leader to shield her and his team and to maintain their morale, but somehow, in the process, he'd incorporated it into a fundamental part of his personality. She didn't think he'd even admit his fears now if it weren't for exhaustion lowering his defenses. Even with her, he tended to recoil at the first sign of emotional trauma before stepping up as if volunteering for the gallows.

She hated seeing him look so defeated, the bags beneath his eyes packed heavy with worry. She wanted to say something that would remove the slump from his shoulders and the haunted look from his eyes, but the best thing she could do at that moment was just to listen and provide a sounding board for his concerns.

"It's a murder charge, El. This isn't some gray area finagling that I can turn a blind eye to or sweep under the rug. This is..." He sought a word that would be significant enough to convey his misgivings without scaring his wife, but his exhaustion-addled mind couldn't come up with anything, and he merely shook his head to convey the magnitude of the disaster.

"I thought you told the detective that a jury would have reasonable doubt."

One shoulder shrugged, and a corner of Peter's mouth turned up wryly. "It is possible, but it was really a bluff, a play for time because I need him not to accept this as an open-and-shut case, but to really investigate. But at the same time, it's a dangerous game. Neal has a history with Fowler, so it could backfire. Most of their dealings that might lead to suspicion never made it into the files, like Fowler framing Neal or...hold on."

He stood up and crossed over to the door, checked the corridor before closing the door firmly and returning to reclaim her hand. "I don't think he'll find Mentor, or make much sense of it if he does. God knows there are unanswered questions there. But even the fact that Fowler once arrested him could be twisted to make it look as if this was an act of revenge.

"But you don't believe he did it," El stated confidently.

"I'm sure he didn't. But none of that certainty is concrete, something that would help clear him in court. Neal's not a killer. Nonviolence is a fundamental part of his character. I'm not saying people haven't been affected by his actions; he doesn't always stop to think the consequences through. He's impulsive and reckless, but never, ever has he deliberately, knowingly, gone into a situation intending to hurt someone...with the possible exception of Fowler. But it's more than that."

Peter jumped up and resumed pacing, feet moving with the rhythm of his thoughts. "I know him. I know his tells. I know when he's playing an angle, when he gets that shifty, evasive look or he looks just too innocent. It wasn't that. He came to me. He came to me for help, and he wouldn't do that if he was guilty, either because he wouldn't want to compromise me or because he wouldn't want me to get to the bottom of the mystery."

El agreed that Peter seemed to have an instinct where Neal was concerned, acting as a living seismograph, sensing the shift in the tectonic plates of Neal's intentions.

"He always comes to you when he's in real trouble," she assured him. "Whatever happens between you, at some basic level you're the person he trusts the most."

"He wanted me to give him a reason to stay, so I told him...I promised him that I'd clear his name."

"And I'm sure you will," Elizabeth stated confidently. "That's what you do."

"What if I can't?" Peter's back was turned to her, and Elizabeth wasn't sure if she'd heard correctly. Self-doubt in his professional abilities was an alien concept to Peter. He might not solve every case, but he'd follow every lead tenaciously and generate others by insight and hard work. He might temporarily shelve his pursuit of justice, but he never quit and never accepted failure. But then, she supposed, he'd never had a personal stake as high as this one.

As if he could read her mind, Peter continued. "It's not my case. It's not even an FBI case. My access to evidence and witnesses, even to basic information, is limited."

"When have you let that stop you?"

"It won't stop me, but it will hinder me. I won't be able to use official resources and..." He gestured ruefully in the general direction of the door, "the police aren't exactly going to be inclined to cooperate. I've already been warned off the case by Hughes."

He sat down again, this time taking both her hands in his, a protective and tender gesture. "Hon, you need to understand that this could get bad."

"How bad are we talking?" There was apprehension in the question, but she tried to keep it light.

He measured his words out carefully as if testing each one before it left his lips. "How would you feel if you were no longer married to an FBI agent?"

"Honey! You think you could lose your job over this?"

He thought it politic not to mention the fact that losing his job might actually be the preferred consequence of the night's activities. If Neal had run, Peter could have been charged with aiding and abetting a fugitive and, with murder charges on the table, Hughes would have been unable to turn a blind eye. "It's a possibility. I'm already on thin ice in some quarters, and this time I'd be operating beyond the rules."

Elizabeth smiled bravely. "My husband, the maverick. Who would have thought?"

It was a startling thought, an unthinkable concept given final form by extreme circumstances, but shaped by several years of exposure to unorthodox thinking by his partner.

Elizabeth had watched her husband's black and white world tint into kaleidoscopic shades of gray then explode into chromatic chaos. While she had taken joy in his emergence from a rigid shell, she didn't think either of them were ready for a complete metamorphosis. Having a more flexible idea of justice was a far cry from losing his job altogether. A passing nod to moral relativity did not make him any less a career agent. He lived and breathed the FBI, and although she wouldn't love him any less if he changed jobs - and she believed he would succeed in anything he set his mind to - she couldn't imagine any other career that would bring him the same sense of personal fulfillment and happiness.

She wanted to protest on those grounds, but she could tell that would merely intensify the internal struggle he was experiencing. Peter had fallen silent, and she watched him focus intently on something only he could see, grim determination slightly softened at the edges by melancholy.

"It wasn't meant to be irrevocable, you know," he said so softly El wasn't sure whether the words were meant for her. "I can't even credit Neal with anticipating that development."

"The deal?" she asked, not entirely sure to what he was referring. At his nod, she asked, 'Any regrets?"

There was an air of fond amusement as if he were remembering something else, as he answered, "No, no regrets."

"I can't put him back in jail, El. I can't and I won't." El could tell from the clear look in her husband's eyes and the relaxation in his muscles that that decision brought him peace, whatever the consequences he faced.

She was immensely relieved to hear him say it, largely because she couldn't abide the thought of Neal behind bars again, but just as much because she feared the damage it would cause to Peter himself. She had been afraid that his exacting sense of duty would force this self-evisceration on him, and so now she was curious as to what had affected this change of heart.

She said nothing, fearing a direct question would break him out of this introspective mood. Instead, she made a slight humming sound of encouragement.

"He doesn't belong in jail."

She thought he would elaborate on that thought, and he started to several times. "He doesn't...I couldn't..." but he was unwilling or unable to continue, his tone dark and bruised. She squeezed his hand in comfort and as a signal that he didn't need to try to complete the thought for her.

Finally, he resumed. "It's gone beyond my personal feelings. If Neal went to jail now, after all he's done for the Department, it would be tantamount to a death sentence. Snitches don't fare well in jail, and Neal is so much more than that, he'd be seen as the ultimate turncoat. He's been instrumental in putting too many people away - powerful people. He wouldn't stand a chance." After a split second, he whispered, as if to himself. "It was supposed to be about chances."

Elizabeth was at a loss for something to say, and after a minute, he continued more strongly. "I wouldn't be able to protect him." The bleak anguish in his tone made it clear that this was the crux of the matter, and the white knuckles in her husband's clenched fist, thumping with barely restrained power on his knee punctuated the sentiment. She had a feeling that it was only her presence that prevented him from trying it out on a piece of inoffensive wall or furniture.

Peter hadn't been able to protect Neal this night either, and the consequences of that inability had been starkly borne home to him that night - coarse grains of failure ground into an open wound by the hours of helpless waiting.

Deciding to steer the conversation in a more upbeat direction, Elizabeth asked with a touch of mischief, "Does Neal know that you won't put him in jail again?"

"Oh God, I hope not," Peter said fervently, trying to match her smile, but he couldn't help adding more honestly, "Though it wouldn't surprise me if he's figured it out. I more or less told Neal that I was done with arresting him. El..." He lowered his voice, a confession for her ears only. "I told him I wouldn't stop him if he decided to run. He didn't really want to. He wanted me to give him reasons not to go, so I did, but I also left the choice up to him."

He gave a short, decidedly unhumorous, laugh. "The irony is that, if he had run, he'd probably be dead by now. I'm an agent when I should be his friend and his friend when I should be an agent. Or maybe the problem is that I can't separate the two anymore, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing for Neal or for me."

It was clear that his Olympic-sized sense of responsibility was tearing him in different directions and was probably the solvent dissolving his usually impregnable emotional fortitude. She squeezed his hand in sympathy, recognising the dilemma, but unable to offer more than platitudes.

His thumb smoothed the valleys between her knuckles, and she snuggled in as close as the separate chairs would allow. "I love you," he murmured against her hair before dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

He decided he'd dumped enough of his problems on her for one day and searched for a more positive spin. "I know it all seems like a mess now, but I'll figure it out. And Neal will be fine. The doctor who examined him seemed to think that there were a lot of positive indications suggesting he'd make a full recovery."

It was a great speech, saturated with as much belief as he could infuse into it, and they both allowed those ideas to linger in the air as they lapsed into silence.

They were jolted from their thoughts a few minutes later as the door opened, and an Asian doctor, clad in scrubs, paused politely in the opening.

Peter made a sound that didn't quite coalesce into an actual word but might have vaguely started life as an imprecation. Either way, the syllable formed a symphony of fear and worry.

"Family of Neal Caffrey?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Family of Neal Caffrey?"

Peter and El rose to their feet in a movement that would have won gold in any synchronised olympic sport. "Yes."

Any other time, El might have found it funny how quickly Peter claimed a familial relationship with Neal, but at that moment she could only admire his ability to speak at all, since her own vocal chords seemed to be paralysed by dread.

"Mr. and Mrs. Caffrey?" the doctor hazarded a guess.

Peter shook his head in a rigid motion. "No, it's Burke, but I'm listed as Neal's next of kin. Please, could you just tell us if Neal is okay."

"The operation was successful, and there were no unexpected complications during the procedure."

"Oh, thank goodness." Relief sapped all the strength from Elizabeth's legs, and she collapsed back in the chair, fully expecting her husband to coordinate with her in this maneuver as well. Instead, he remained braced on his feet. She was puzzled by the grim look that still remained on his face - until he began to speak.

"What's the prognosis? What can we expect in terms of recovery?" Peter's voice was steady, but contained micro-fractures of stress which hinted at the tectonic turbulence beneath.

"Please take a seat, Mr. Burke. This could take a while, but I'll answer all your questions to the best of my ability."

Reluctantly, Peter sat, his hand blindly seeking and finding El's.

The neurosurgeon's English was flawless, more British than American and only its melodic tone revealed its origins. His eyes were kind, and Peter trusted him instinctively.

"Please understand that no two brain injuries are alike and, at this moment, I can only speak in generalities. I know you want concrete answers, but right now, I can only offer statistics and probabilities from my experience." He steepled his hands together, tapping the fingertips together as he marshaled his thoughts.

"I am cautiously optimistic that Mr. Caffrey will make a good recovery. Your..." He paused uncertainly, seeking the exact relationship between his patient and his interlocutors.

"Neal." Peter filled in unhelpfully but accurately.

"I believe that Neal was hit with something along the lines of a baseball bat. However, the peculiarities of the wound would suggest he saw it coming and was in the process of ducking or turning away. That almost certainly saved his life, since it diluted the force of the impact." He demonstrated on his own head with his hand playing the role of the incoming weapon.

El flinched, partly due to the brutality of the visual image, but also because her husband's fingers tightened painfully around hers. Peter let go instantly, withdrawing into his own space.

"There was a lot of blood," he observed tightly.

"Don't let that worry you. Head wounds always bleed excessively because of the number of blood vessels under the skin. Also in his favor, your...Neal seems to have a thick skull."

There was a sound from Peter as if he'd just swallowed a frog mid-croak, and when both El and the doctor looked at him, he offered a sheepish grimace. "Do you know how many times I've accused him of that? I can't wait to tell him it's literally true, that I have medical verification."

"It's also means that he only sustained a hairline fracture, which makes him extremely fortunate, since bone fragments would have caused much more damage. Neal is also young, fit, and healthy, all factors that contribute to an optimistic prognosis."

The doctor's expression shifted slightly into a more somber cast. Both the Burkes could tell that the delicate seesaw of hope that had been offered was about to be qualified by a recitation of the potential for disastrous outcomes. They both braced themselves in expectation of the blow.

"However your...Neal has sustained a traumatic brain injury, and nobody just walks away from that. At least in the short term, there will be effects from the original injury and the pressure placed on the brain by the bleeding. Every injury is different, so I won't speculate on what that might be. However, I will say that the blow was to the left temporal lobe, which is the speech and language center of the brain, so I would expect some impact on his communication abilities, at least temporarily. There will be a team of specialists who will help Neal with whatever problems arise - physical therapists, speech therapists, occupational therapists.

"It's important to add that, for family and friends, often the harder aspects of recovery from a TBI are not the obvious physical problems, but the more subtle changes dealing with behavioral and cognitive changes. There may be decreased memory, impulsivity, poor judgment and social inappropriateness."

Peter couldn't help but wonder if someone who already had problems with impulsivity and poor judgment might actually see an improvement in that area. His brief moment of wry levity quickly withered under the doctor's next revelation.

"I don't want to get ahead of ourselves. While I have every expectation that Neal will make it through this difficult time, you need to understand that he's still in a critical condition. We will keep him in the ICU for at least 48 hours, since we have to closely monitor his intracranial pressure, blood pressure and breathing, so for now, he's been placed in a medically induced coma."

Doctor Hussein had given many similar talks in his long career and was a good judge of when his audience had reached saturation point. On top of the trauma of waiting for news of a loved one, there was only so much information people could process. The warm intelligence that had shone from Mrs. Burke's eyes had given way to cold shock and incomprehension and the glaze of unshed tears.

In contrast, her husband, though rumpled and red-eyed from a sleepless night, looked unsurprised by the report, and the neurosurgeon guessed that either he'd had experience with brain injuries before or that he'd been talking to another doctor and was already well briefed. He'd received every piece of information with the same tight acceptance, yet it seemed to be grim determination, not fatalism, and that boded well for the injured man.

Hussein brought the session to a close. "There will be plenty of time to cover details of Neal's care more thoroughly later. Do you have any questions for me now?"

"When can we see him?" Peter asked instantly.

"He's in Recovery at the moment. Give us a couple of hours to get him settled in the ICU. However, he's not going to be aware of your presence, so this might be the best time to catch up on your sleep, contact other relatives or friends, and make any arrangements necessary on his behalf or yours for coverage at work."

Peter grimaced. "I wish it was that easy, but Neal works for the FBI, as do I, and last night, Neal witnessed a murder. We believe his life is in danger, so he's going to need a protection detail with him at all times."

The doctor looked remarkably unperturbed at the prospect. "We can accommodate that. However, for the safety for all our patients, while Neal is in ICU there are rules that we expect all visitors, and that will include your people, to adhere to. I'll find you a copy of the paperwork that you can disseminate to your team. Meanwhile, if you have any requirements or expectations for your people, please let me know."

He stood up, and Peter rose with him to shake his hand. "Thank you, Doctor."

"Please remember that, as Neal's primary support, it is important that you take care of yourselves. Remember..."

"It's a marathon, not a sprint," Peter contributed.

As the doctor left, Peter sat down again, once more gathering El up in a reversal of their previous roles as she shook in his arms, and he comforted her.

Peter had had time to confront the 'what-ifs' and to battle these alternate possibilities in the privacy of his own mind and ultimately to accept the change in paradigm that they threatened. Now, he locked them away to focus on the present and what he could actually achieve. Neal would live, and Peter could deal with any of the variations on that theme. It was his job now to make sure that Neal had a life to return to.

He persuaded El that the doctor's advice was sound and, since there was no chance of Neal recovering consciousness that day, it was a time best used for organising their affairs and reducing the pressure of future engagements where possible. He insisted that he was only staying to take the first shift of the guard detail and, in the interest of spousal harmony, Elizabeth pretended to believe him.

After a brief phone call with Diana to update her on the situation and ask her to organise a schedule within the unit to provide Neal's protection, Peter took his own advice to conserve energy and used his time the most profitable way he could by catching up on his sleep deficit. It should have been easy to nap with the exhaustion blanketing his mind, but although adrenaline had faded, it had wreaked a path of destruction through his nervous system which made relaxing almost impossible. He also had to contend with the unsoporific contours of the plastic chairs, so it took a long time to actually fall asleep.

The nurse who woke him introduced herself as Megan, the head of the team that would oversee Neal's care. She radiated efficiency and competency, yet also had a warm smile that seemed motherly. She led him down a corridor to the ICU. The short rest left him feeling more drugged than rested, but that didn't prevent him from taking in the details of the surrounding area.

It was a relief to discover that the ICU was in a geographically distinct area of the hospital with controlled access, which meant that there was no through traffic to other departments. While Neal remained here, it would be relatively easy to keep him secure. Unlike the last ICU Peter had seen, it wasn't an open-ward design, but had about ten single rooms with glass doors and partitions facilitating visibility from the central nursing station.

An attempt to soften the sterility and harsh reality of the function of the space by providing light music and a soft carpeting material that absorbed sound was destroyed by the amount of technology, such as crash carts and portable monitors, that lurked in each alcove. Each machine emphasized the precarious condition of the patients inside.

Peter was guided to the room second to the left, and the nurse was speaking as he entered, but he'd ceased to listen, eager to see his friend. However, at the sight of the figure in the bed, he paused, puzzled. It wasn't Neal...at least... recognition hit like a blow to the stomach, doubling him over, his chest tightening in a band around his distress and bile pushing into his throat.

Half of Neal's head was shaved, although bandages hid the worst of the damage, concealing the origin of a tube and a wire sprouting from beneath the white cloth. Far more distressing was the bruising and swelling around his face, distorting it to the point that his identity was blurred. Completing this disguise was the intubation tube fastened around his mouth, the other end of which lead to the mechanical ventilator.

He looked impossibly small lying in the perfect center of the bed, so still and pale it was as if the innumerable tubes and monitors plastered to his body were draining the color and vitality from him instead of sustaining his life. Peter's heart was thumping roughly against the inside of his ribs, private point and counterpoint to the beeping heart monitor publicly declaring Neal's continuing existence. His eyes slipped shut involuntarily, as if his brain needed a moment to process what he saw to prevent it dissolving in heartache and hopelessness.

The nurse was talking to him again, her hand on his arm, and this time he listened, glad for the distraction. "I'm sorry; I was trying to warn you. It is often disturbing to family members to see a loved one connected to so much technology. We often find it helps if you understand what each machine is doing, so let me explain."

He concentrated on the layman's explanation of pulse oximeters and intracranial pressure catheters, appreciating the illusionary sense of control it gave him over the situation.

"Is he in any pain?" he asked abruptly as she finished.

"Not at all," she assured him. "I know he looks bad, but we're closely monitoring him and his pain medication."

Peter shivered, and it wasn't only at the sight of the forlorn figure with only a sheet covering him. "Isn't he cold?"

"The room is maintained at a cold temperature to keep the body's swelling down. It's important to his recovery."

"Is he aware of anything right now?" Peter wasn't even sure why he asked, since Neal looked as far from conscious as it was possible to get and still stay at arm's length from the Grim Reaper.

He'd seen Neal asleep before, on stakeouts and sometimes when he'd crashed on the sofa, too tired to think about going home, and had been struck by his friend's stillness at such times, the reduction of the intensity and vibrancy that characterised his waking moments. But this wasn't the stillness of sleep, it was the complete slackness of moribundity, and Peter wanted some reassurance that Neal was still somewhere inside.

"Maybe at some level. It never hurts to talk to a comatose person. Just be quiet and reassuring. However, I would suggest that your time would be best used catching up on sleep. You can pull that cot out to nap comfortably. No one can come into the ICU without us knowing. If you need anything, push this button."

Absently he watched her leave and start to fill out some paperwork before he turned back to the room. Pursing his lips, he considered his options. He regarded the cot, tucked under shelves laden with supplies, with some longing, but couldn't bring himself to pull it out. Instead, he hooked a ubiquitous plastic chair with his foot and dragged it closer to Neal's bedside. He folded himself down on it with a sigh of resignation.

In his own version of exposure therapy, he stared at his friend's partially obscured face, hoping that familiarity would breed acceptance, then his gaze swept down to take in all the machinery, mentally repeating everything he'd learned about its function and its role in Neal's healthcare regime.

He rubbed his hands on his trousers, trying to generate courage as if it were static electricity, wanting to reach out to touch his partner, but fearing his skin would be as cold and waxy as the corpse he resembled. Finally, he laid a tentative hand on Neal's arm, in one of the few exposed areas that wasn't connected to a pad or lead. To his relief, although it wasn't particularly warm, it lacked the lifeless chill of a cadaver.

"Hey, Neal." he said softly. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I'm here. You're going to be fine...really fine, not what passes for fine in your mind."

He moistened his lips, trying to think of something else comforting to say, but apparently he'd scraped the bottom of his bedside manner, exhausting his very limited supply of encouraging small talk. He rubbed his temple as pain pulsed dully just underneath his skull, regretting sending El home, since she could have spent the next two hours saying supportive things and not repeating herself once.

It wasn't that Peter was a terrible conversationalist, but he liked to have a partner to help maintain a dialogue, and he didn't do idle chitchat. On their frequent long stakeouts, he and Neal often enjoyed long discussions. They both had wide-ranging, but not always overlapping interests, sometimes finding nuggets of shared pursuits they hadn't known the other liked. When all else failed, there was always the fallback of discussing a case. Even on the coldest of cases, they could strike sparks of inspiration in each other to build a fire of speculation and potential leads in a process that never failed to warm and thrill Peter.

So, if cases provided the most fruitful source for topics of debate, Peter had the perfect subject matter right at hand. "Why did you go to Fowler's last night? I thought he was out of our lives for good, and that wasn't a bad thing. Why, after all this time, were the two of you in contact, and how did it lead to this? Why didn't you tell me? Was it just because I was out of town?" He sat back slightly, ruefully scrubbing a hand over his face. "All I have is questions, and you're lying there as inscrutable as a sphinx. I wish I'd asked them earlier when you were a little more compos mentis."

He patted Neal's arm absently. "Were you trying to tell me something in the ER? I was a little distracted at the time, trying to prevent the whole leaking brains thing. You seemed really confused, but something set off the flashback for you. You know, it would really help if you could wake up and tell me what happened."

Peter rambled on for some time in a similar vein, his comments becoming more random and intermittent until, lulled by the tuneless, monotonous, yet reassuring, lullaby of Neal's heart monitor, he slipped into sleep like a seal into deep water.

A couple of hours later, he was woken by a gentle nudge on the shoulder and the insistent repetition of his name. He bolted upright, almost knocking the nurse over in the process. Disorientation lasted only for a split second, then his bleary eyes flew to check on Neal then the monitors, the steady beat there alleviating his most immediate concern.

"Agent Burke?" the nurse repeated - Megan, Peter's memory supplied helpfully. He didn't quite have Neal's faculty with names, but observational and recall skills were part and parcel of his investigative profession.

"Is something wrong? Is Neal all right?"

"There's a Detective Samuelson outside, and he's not on your list, so the security guard stopped him. However, he's insisting on coming in."

"I'll come out...no, wait. It's all right, let him come in." Every instinct revolted at the thought of allowing the detective in when Neal was lying there so vulnerable, but the strategist in Peter won out. There was a valuable point here to be made that could benefit Neal in the long run.

Peter scrubbed his face with his hands again, then ran them through his hair. There was little he could do for his clothes to disguise the fact that he'd been wearing them for two days and had recently slept in them. He had his temper firmly leashed, if not quite muzzled, because it metaphorically bared its teeth and snarled as the detective walked in. If Samuelson had looked carefully he might have noticed the white of fury around Peter's pursed lips and the pounding of the pulse in his neck.

However, the detective's eyes were fixed on Neal's inert form, genuine shock and dismay apparent in his expression. As he turned to speak to Peter, the agent waved a quelling hand and cut him off. "No, we're not doing this here."

If there was a chance that Neal was aware of what was happening around him, Peter was going to keep negativity and conflict out of the room. He shepherded the cop out of the ICU and past the security guard at the door. While he wanted someone actually from his team in with Neal at all times, he wasn't adverse to assistance from the hospital.

"What do you want, Samuelson?" he asked curtly, keeping the question just the right side of hostile and noting the other man didn't look quite as assured as he had during their last confrontation. There was a definite defensiveness about his posture. Peter cynically put that down more to the threat of legal action than genuine remorse at his failure to provide timely medical assistance.

"I heard Caffrey was out of surgery, so I thought I'd find out how he was doing."

Peter didn't attempt to conceal his skepticism. "You mean you came to haul him off to jail. Still think he's faking, or is a coma sufficiently critical to credit him with a genuine injury?"

"Yeah, about that." Samuelson scratched his head sheepishly. "All I can say is that the kid is a hell of an actor. He really seemed fine."

Peter had no intention of letting him off the hook by agreeing that Neal was at his most convincing when in the most trouble. "The doctor said he was probably hit by a baseball bat. Did you find one at the scene?"

He was hoping for a negative reply which would confirm the presence of a third party, but after a moment's reluctance, Samuelson nodded. "We found it - Fowler's prints all over it." The sharing of information wasn't exactly an olive branch, but it was a small twig.

Peter jumped on the most positive explanation for this disclosure. "So you have to admit that there's a possibility that Neal was acting in self-defense."

This time is was the detective's turn to express reservation. "It's possible, but equally probable that it was Fowler acting in self-defense when he saw Caffrey had a gun."

"Neal doesn't do guns." Peter staunchly ignored the memory of Neal pointing a gun almost point-blank at Fowler's head.

"You're too close to this one, Burke. Look at it as a lawman, not his friend." It wasn't said unkindly.

"He's strictly non-violent, never committed a crime with as much as a knife." Peter decided to exploit this relatively cooperative mood and fish for more information. "What do you have on the gun?"

Samuelson shrugged. "Nothing but Caffrey's prints. It's not registered, but was bought at a gunshow in Virginia. Look, I have to go, but keep me updated. I need a statement when he wakes up."

"When he's in a condition capable of making a statement, I'll let you know, but you only talk with him in the presence of his lawyer or me."

The detective didn't look happy as he walked away, but it was more of a detente than Peter was expecting. He acknowledged the guard's assistance with a handshake and a quick word of thanks before returning to the ICU. Megan had taken advantage of his absence to perform a quick neurological examination and a TBB and checked the vent, the drips and the alarm limits. "He's doing well," she assured Peter before whisking out of the room.

It was good news, but he wished with all his heart that his partner looked well. He'd take even the slightest improvement - a tinge more color or the smallest voluntary movement, but Neal still looked like a wax model of himself, the ultimate con, a simulacrum of Peter's best friend. He shut his eyes, ignoring the burn along the seams of his eyelids.

"It looks like the gun's a dead end." He forced himself to resume his monologue. "It came up the iron pipeline and ended up on the streets. The question is, is it Fowler's? He certainly had the experience and contacts to easily get hold of an illegal weapon. If so, did he buy it for protection from old enemies? He still qualified for a permit and probably had a registered weapon - we need to check on that, so if he got hold of an unregistered gun, he must have acquired it for a specific criminal purpose. If it wasn't his, it must belong to a third party. I think that's the more likely scenario. There was someone else in that room and they were armed. Was Fowler acting under duress? Were you?"

Peter didn't mention the other possibility, but couldn't prevent a picture of it from flashing vividly through his mind - Fowler, his face enraged, swinging the baseball bat with murderous intent at Neal, who fell back, firing as a last resort to protect himself. It could have happened; Peter had to acknowledge that in the privacy of his own mind, but it ushered in a plethora of uncomfortable issues. It presupposed that Neal took a gun with him to Fowler's apartment. Peter didn't believe Neal owned a gun, certainly he wouldn't keep one in June's house, and the only time Peter had seen him in possession of one, Neal had stolen it on impulse. It was certainly in his capabilities to acquire one. He could pluck one right off a pedestrian in the street if he desired, but to do so meant he was knowingly entering a dangerous situation at Fowler's and if that was the case, why hadn't he contacted Peter for help?

Was Fowler blackmailing him? As Kramer had proved, there was plenty of leverage material in Neal's past that could be used against him, and the OPR agent's liaison with Kate could have provided him with considerable information about those earlier crimes. Even if that were true, Peter couldn't see Neal marching to Fowler's with a gun. He hoped his partner would have come to him. After all, through his one-night offer of amnesty and his assistance with the Raphael, Peter had surely proved he had no interest in seeing Neal punished for past crimes.

This was all assuming that the ex-OPR agent had again aligned himself on the side of illegality, which was in itself a dubious proposition. Fowler had been forced into that position before, but genuinely seemed to regret his actions.

All this speculation merely drummed up more questions. The itch to get answers was growing stronger, a constant irritation in Peter's curious mind. But the cost of indulging that curiosity was a price he hadn't even thought about paying until Blake came to relieve him at four o'clock. He hadn't expected the sullen creep of dread at the thought of leaving, and he started briefing his subordinate with unnecessary thoroughness to postpone his inevitable departure.

This was a logical time to leave and to kick the investigation into high gear, but logic was gasping for its last breath, and irrationality was waiting to dance on its grave. Peter wasn't a superstitious man, but the crawling voice of fear insisted that if he left, he might never see his friend again, and that possibility paralysed his intent. There had always been a connection between them, and Peter felt personally responsible for maintaining that invisible but tensile link that was tethering Neal to this existence. It might be fanciful, but it embodied fundamental truths in their relationship. Neal was in danger of leaving in the most permanent way possible, and Peter was the only one who could secure him in place, or find him in the lost space of his own mind.

Anxiety drummed an angry rhythm through Peter's weary limbs, but whatever his inner conflict, he was quite capable of hiding his emotions behind a confident facade. It would have taken a more observant man than Agent Blake to notice the tension around his boss's jaw and eyes that was the only visible sign of his distress.

Running out of excuses for delaying his exit, Peter knew he had to trust that his absence wouldn't be detrimental to Neal's recovery and that his friend was in good hands. However, the coiled knot of anxiety twisted tighter in his gut as he prepared to leave.

"I'll be back soon." The words were ostensibly directed at Blake, but they weren't intended for him. Peter rested his hand briefly on Neal's arm before stepping away, refusing to allow himself a final glance backwards.


	5. Chapter 5

Here's the latest chapter in celebration of the Season 5. Of course, I don't know if anyone will read it since they'll be too busy celebrating the return of the show!

Thank you so much to those who've taken the time to comment - it means more than I can say. Thank you also to my beleaguered beta who has still managed to keep up with the task despite, well, she knows - you're wonderful!

Chapter 5

Peter strode into the White Collar offices, a man on a mission, gathering up Jones and Diana with a glance and dragging them along with him in the vortex created by the force of his passage. They exchanged a meaningful look before entering their Boss's office. It was the the kind of stare that Daniel would have shared with his coworker before entering the lion's den, if he had a colleague, and if he voluntarily stepped inside and if, at that moment, he cared more for the lion inside than he did for his own safety.

To those experienced at reading past the self-possession that typically cloaked the senior agent, the telltale symptoms of emotional stress were apparent. Dark circles under Peter's eyes and the tight lines etched around them were testaments to the anxiety that had burned through him during the past 24 hours. Diana could see that he was wearing that closed-down, heavy look of distress that only one man seemed to bring out in him. It only appeared when Neal was in trouble or causing trouble, and this time it seemed to be a unique combination of both triggers.

When Neal had first joined the unit on a provisional basis in Diana's probie days, his charm had largely rolled off her shoulders like water off a duck's back - her rainbow-colored feathers repelling his attempts at flirting. However, she'd been reluctantly impressed by his ability to adapt and especially by the improvisational riffs he fell into with Peter as if they'd worked together for years.

When she returned as a fully fledged agent from D.C., she'd been amazed by the level of rapport achieved between her hard-nosed boss and the former convict. There was a working and personal harmony quite amazing to witness, as if they were tuned to each other like strings on a violin, each vibrating in resonance to the playing of the other.

But, that bruised look had also started to make an appearance when the vicissitudes of undercover work or Neal's own reckless behaviour carried him into the path of bullets, bolts or other lethal projectiles. Even more distressing were the times that Neal intentionally or even flagrantly crossed the lines of legality, courting another stay in jail.

Almost grudgingly, Diana had developed a fondness for her CI teammate, especially on the rare occasions she was granted a glimpse below the shiny surface of flashy smiles and sartorial elegance. He was thoughtful, truly interested in his colleagues, amusing, and contributed tremendously helpful insights into the team's cases. In short, he was immensely likable. But therein lay the problem. She couldn't help but remember that his remarkable success in his former profession was due to that very likeability. It was his job to make people like and trust him even while he lied to their faces. It was a sobering dilemma. She found it hard to reconcile his criminal record with the good heart she knew he had, so she'd given up trying, contenting herself with maintaining a healthy dose of suspicion with her appreciation.

Her concern on this matter was occasionally stoked to the point of incendiary alarm when it concerned her Boss, who had adopted the young conman into his heart. There was a time, even after Neal was released into his custody, when it had been a game, and Peter loved the challenge of matching wits and solving puzzles. Now, however, their lives were inextricably tangled in a complex and sometimes messy snarl of Gordian complexity - hopes, dreams, habits and lifestyles colliding and meshing. Neal's fate was tied too closely to Peter's personal and professional survival for his antics to be amusing anymore.

Nothing could have illustrated this with more clarity than Neal's recent unauthorised field trip to tropical isles. Although Peter had still led his team with his usual assurance, it was distressing to see the number of times he had turned to celebrate a moment of victory or to ask a question, only to falter and have the smile slide off his face when he found the space next to him empty. There were even times when he seemed rudderless, almost lost, reduced to a smaller, quieter version of his normally robust and confident self, as if a shadowy impostor had taken his place. The impact on his career was just as evident. Peter had received an official reprimand, additional scrutiny from higher powers, and eventually had been banished to the wastelands of the evidence locker.

Right now, despite Peter's obvious weariness, there was a tension that crackled with his every movement, an almost electrical charge that shimmered in the air even as he sat stiffly behind his desk.

"How's Neal doing?" Diana asked with genuine concern.

"As well as can be expected," Peter answered shortly. "The doctors have no answers right now." Quickly changing the subject, he continued, "So, what've we got?"

With a quick nod, Diana encouraged Jones to take the lead. He took a piece of paper out of the folder he was holding and placed it on Peter's desk, twirling it with two fingers so it faced his boss. "Here's Neal's phone records. They show that it was Fowler who initiated contact at 4:13 p.m. yesterday, and it seems to be the only call between them. In fact, it's the last call Neal received, and he didn't dial anyone else afterwards. His tracking data..." He paused slightly to give Peter the opportunity to pull it up on the computer, his boss's movements smooth and practiced. Jones continued, although he knew that Peter could read the information for himself with far greater speed.

"It shows Neal leaving the house five minutes later. He chose to walk, not take a cab, although Fowler's apartment was near the edge of his radius, and arrived 32 minutes later."

"He wasn't exactly hurrying." Peter frowned at the screen. "But he took the most direct route and didn't stop for anything on the way. Then, the gun can't have been his. I'm absolutely sure he doesn't have one at June's - if for no other reason than the Marshals can toss the place at any time they choose according to his release agreement. He doesn't stop to purchase or steal one and, as far as we can tell, he doesn't meet anyone on the way."

"He could have used a burner phone to call the little guy," Diana suggested tentatively.

"Possible, but to the best of my knowledge, Mozzie is out of town." Peter bent forward again to read the data as Jones resumed his narration.

"He was at Fowler's for about 45 minutes before the signal went dead, apparently disabled in the struggle. This was almost the exact time the neighbours reported hearing shots. The police were called in and arrested Neal there ten minutes later. That's about it. Were you able to get any useful information from him?"

"He said he didn't do it, and he also said he didn't remember the shooting." Peter lifted up a hand to forestall the obvious question. "Yes, I believe him on both counts. Traumatic amnesia is common with a severe head wound, and he almost certainly lost consciousness from the blow or he'd have left the apartment or called the police himself in that missing ten minutes. What do we have on Fowler?"

"Not as much as I'd like." Diana took up the narrative. "He was in the wind for some time after leaving here. As an ex-FBI agent, he knew exactly how to stay under the radar. My guess is he was scared of Adler, because a week after his death, Fowler surfaced in Newark. He rented a basic apartment, opened a bank account and started working security for an import/export firm called Agroking Implements International. Two months ago, he was transferred to their main office here in New York. That's about it. He's been keeping his nose clean. He doesn't own a car, and he pays all his bills on time."

"Does he own a gun?" Peter asked, flipped through the sparse pages of the report.

"He's licensed and owns a 9mm Glock. Not the weapon he was murdered with."

There was silence as Peter sat motionless, his brow furrowed in thought. "This still leaves us with a bucketload of unanswered questions, but it's a good start. Thank you both."

He sat back in his chair, regarding his team pensively. So far, he'd been able to shield them from the black marks that had recently appeared on his own record. They weren't officially connected to either of his suspensions or his reprimand, and he wanted to keep it that way. He had the career collateral to weather another storm, although he'd probably blown his chances of promotion. That didn't bother him, since he'd preferred to be on the ground investigating cases rather than caught up in the bureaucracy of administration. Also, his priorities had undergone an upheaval that had shifted his professional goals.

"This isn't our case, and Hughes has warned me off it. If we take it any further than we've done today, there could be significant repercussions to your careers, and I can't ask you to risk that."

His team were looking at him with almost identical expressions of fond amusement, leaning more towards the fond with Diana, and seesawing back to amusement with Jones. Collectively it meant, 'You're an idiot'. He knew this because he'd seen it too many times on El's face. Mentally, he threw up his hands, but they danced a little on the way up, then sneaked over to pat his friends on the back.

Agent Burke, however, wasn't as willing to give up, and plowed on stubbornly. "You are both exceptional agents with exemplary records. In a few years, you could write your own ticket for any department in the Bureau. I don't want anything to tarnish that. So..." he finished a trifle lamely, "I want you to not make any hasty decisions. Think it over."

Diana obligingly slipped into a contemplative pose, only to emerge a second later. "Done. Where do we start?"

Jones waved a laconic thumb in her direction. "What she said."

For the first time in what felt like eons, a genuine smile forced its way loose from the frozen wastelands of Peter's face as a surge of warmth and pride in his two agents rolled through him. He didn't try to conceal his appreciation of their loyalty, but let it settle over them all as he considered Diana's question.

The kernel of an idea was sprouting inside him. He missed Neal fiercely, especially that give and take that pushed them both to new heights of inspiration, yet it was as if he could hear his partner whispering in his ear. It was essentially a con, a sleight of hand, an idea Peter would never have considered earlier in his career - pre-Caffrey. That time should have its own zip code or at least its own acronym - BNC, before Neal Caffrey.

"What if..." he began slowly, groping his mental way forward. He glanced up at the two expectant faces in front of him and warmed to his theme, trailing his fingers along the surface of his desk as if checking for dust. "We can't investigate Fowler's murder; it's not in our jurisdiction. But, if a case we're working on happens to intersect with that inquiry, we would be justified in investigating."

"And we have such a case?" Jones interrupted hopefully.

"If we don't, we will," Peter stated cryptically before explaining. "Something in Fowler's life led to his murder. It wasn't a random robbery because nothing appears to have been taken. No, he was targeted. Now, it could be something from his past catching up with him, but he had emerged from hiding, so clearly he wasn't expecting trouble.

"We will examine every institution and individual that intersected with Fowler's life - his landlord, his bank, the company he worked for, his dentist, his bowling league - until we find something that falls under our jurisdiction and gives us a reason for asking broader questions. We'll see if any of them have previous investigations that we can reopen or, failing that, dubious activities that require scrutiny." He looked ruefully at his team. "It's not too late to back out." Seeing identically determined looks, he amended. "But not tonight. You're both tired and have shifts with Neal coming up."

"Do you really think he's in danger?" Jones asked.

It was a fair question, and Peter gave it some consideration, searching for the rationalization behind his own instinctive reaction. Originally more concerned with the legal ramifications for his friend, he hadn't considered other kinds of danger until the visceral quality of Neal's fear in the ER reverberated in his own gut. However, Neal's concussion had left him confused, so maybe his fear was irrational. Peter tested the idea in his mind, but his intuition still flashed a dazzling warning light.

"I believe it's a strong possibility," he said at last. "After all, he did witness a murder, and if there's even the slightest possibility of danger, we have to act on it. At the moment, Neal is unable to protect himself, so we can't take any risks. To be honest, even if there wasn't an external threat, I'd hope for the same commitment. This is a time he's going to need the support of all his friends. Anyway, I really appreciate your help."

Both agents recognised the dismissal, but Diana paused at the door, looking back a little anxiously. "You heading home too, Boss? You look like you got even less sleep than we did last night."

Peter's lips twisted in a grimace as he rubbed a palm over his chin, feeling the scratch of his stubble. He couldn't remember the last time he'd come into the office unshaven.

"I got some sleep while I was waiting for them to take me to Neal, and I even napped a little in his room." Under her knowing eyes, he sagged a little and confessed. "Okay, it wasn't a particularly restful sleep. Every time I started to drop off, I'd jerk awake thinking something was wrong. I ended up just watching him most of the time."

"You want to keep him safe." It was a statement, an acknowledgment of an elementary fact.

"It seems to be something of a compulsion at the moment," Peter admitted, trying to turn it into a joke, but the truth behind it rang through the self-deprecation. Diana wasn't tempted to tease him for once, knowing that when it came to family, her boss had a protective streak a mile wide, the pinched lines of exhaustion and worry etched around his mouth evidence to the grief he was experiencing.

Peter had picked up a pen and was doodling absently. "It doesn't even look like him," he said quietly. He tried to smile, but the corner of his mouth tipped the wrong way. "They've shaved half his head. He's going to hate that. He just looks so..." His voice trailed away.

"Vulnerable." Diana finished off for him gently.

Peter nodded, the memory of Neal's motionless body rendering him incapable of voicing the confirmation. She allowed him to retain his dignity by changing the subject.

"Hey, Boss, when did you last have anything to eat?" The blank look on his face told her everything she needed to know. "Why don't I go and get you a sandwich?"

It was nearly 24 hours since Peter had eaten, and his stomach appeared to be staging a mutiny, threatening to consume itself if no quarter was given. He threw down the pen. "You're right. We need to play this smart. I need to go home, eat and get a good night's sleep, so we're all fresh in the morning."

He couldn't resist the urge to drop in at the hospital and check on Neal's condition. He had tried to call Elizabeth on the way, and it had gone through to voicemail, so he wasn't surprised to find her at Neal's bedside. The taut, closed expression on her face told him how upset she was, so after a quick word for Agent Connors who was on protection detail, he took El down to the cafeteria where he tried to set a good example by choking down a BLT. The first swallow surprised his stomach into a sharp hard spasm, as if it shared his revulsion, but within few minutes the sensation changed, becoming hollow and desperate but with a sour, oily edge of nausea.

He knew from experience that trite reassurances did little to diminish the heartbreak of seeing their friend so still and damaged, so he said nothing on that topic, merely offering El the comfort of his presence and love. Then, with gentle insistence, he persuaded her to accompany him home for a good sleep, or what passed for it that night in their household.

The next day would set the general pattern for many days to come. In the morning, Peter dropped El off at the hospital from where she would later make her way to work. He drove on to the FBI building where he skated the fine line of not interfering with an active NYPD investigation while doing everything he could to solve the case. Hughes kept his distance, probably working on the ever-popular principle of plausible deniability. The team did not find an open case, but quickly focused in on the company Fowler worked for, some anomalies in their paperwork arousing suspicion. Peter spent his days poring over all the financial documents open to the public concerning Agroking Implements International.

His shift to sit with Neal came in the evenings from ten until two in the morning. Practice soon enabled him to maintain a fairly steady patter of conversation, mostly related to the investigation He still bounced ideas off his partner, the mere act of voicing them helpful. When Diana came in to relieve him, Peter would either go home and slip carefully into bed beside his sleeping wife, or crash on the cot beside his friend's bed, too exhausted to move further. He felt empty, drained physically and emotionally, what little rest he had disturbed by formless dreams, a sense of darkness and loneliness that woke him gasping for breath. However, he kept his doubts and fears concealed from his team, the role of steady, imperturbable leader balancing them all, allowing them to draw strength from him.

Peter had met with Dr. Hussein briefly a couple of times, but on the third day after Neal's operation, he was asked to attend a briefing where the team of care specialists would discuss the next stage of Neal's treatment. Dr. Hussein introduced him to several green-scrub and white-coated people seated around the long table, but he was too tired to keep them straight, recognizing only that they seemed to come from many different branches of medicine.

"We're very pleased with Neal's progress so far," the neurosurgeon began. "His intracranial pressure is normal, and the cerebral angiogram indicates that the blood flow to his brain is good. His heart rate is strong, and his brain waves are active. This is all very encouraging, so we are going to bring Neal out of the medically induced coma and, if that goes well, we'll move him out of the ICU and up to the fifth floor."

Peter knew from working in the FBI that each working community had their own language and acronyms that were opaque to outsiders. He was still struggling to navigate the medical linguistic waters, or medicalese as he mentally named it, and interpret terms and procedures, so he asked several questions as the anesthesiologist, the neurologist, general surgeon and head of the inpatient TBI rehabilitation team all made their presentations.

Considering the length of time it took, it seemed to boil down to very little. There was still considerable uncertainty, a lot of talk of the unpredictable nature of head injuries and the need to wait until Neal was conscious until they could measure how serious the consequences would be.

"But the lucid interval was a good indication, right?" Peter kept his voice restrained and carefully devoid of emotion, but he was searching for something positive to hold onto.

"It is a good sign, yes." Dr. Grady, the physician in charge of Neal's overall care spoke up cautiously. "But since it occurred before the operation, it may not be the best indicator of the outcome. However, there are other factors that are more reliable predictors of the future. Neal is bringing many strengths to the recovery process. He is young and was in great physical shape at the time of his injury - which helps - but there are other pre-injury variables associated with outcome. Those that appear to be most relevant with "recovery" are pre-injury intelligence, cognitive abilities, and personality."

Peter considered that a winning situation on all counts. "I don't know if Neal has ever officially been tested for his IQ, but I can tell you it's probably off the charts. He speaks eight languages, including conversational Swahili, has a smorgasbord of esoteric abilities and the most intellectually curious and creative mind I've ever known."

"That's good to hear," Hussein chimed in. "The best recoveries tend to be in minds that retain plasticity, the ability to reroute information from damaged brain cells. Think of Neal as a commuter. If he always goes home by the Midtown Tunnel and there's an accident or hold up of some kind, he'll sit there stuck. However, if he knows how to cross over on 48th and drive up to the Queensboro Bridge, or even take the subway, he can be home in time for dinner."

A proud smile spread over Peter's face, the analogy immensely comforting to him. "Neal would not only know every route, he could probably get there on the rooftops or through the sewers or hangglide. And if there was no way to get there, he'd find a way to bring the dinner to him. He's the king of mental adaptability and resilience."

There were answering smiles in response to his enthusiasm, although intermingled with wary skepticism. "That's good to hear," Hussein confirmed. "A person who has abundant life experiences and uses his brainpower is more likely to develop alternate pathways for cognitive function and reasoning, to reconnect neurons in a successful rehabilitation."

The neurologist concluded the meeting by pushing some papers across the table for Peter to sign. This was another role to which Peter had had to become accustomed. He was used to bearing a variety of responsibilities, especially pertaining to Neal. He'd been responsible for catching Neal, for making the deal that got him out of jail, and then for keeping him on the straight and narrow to avoid a return to jail. Most importantly, as his partner, Peter was responsible for watching his back and keeping him safe. He had once even literally held Neal's life in his hands after his partner had fallen off a roof when the molding had collapsed.

There had been legal implications in his role as Neal's handler, but now as his next-of-kin he was responsible for all medical decisions, for signing consent forms, giving permission to operate, reading up on the risks of different procedures. It shouldn't have seemed like such a jump in accountability, but this wasn't Peter's area of expertise.

When Neal had informed him that he'd written him down as his next-of-kin, Peter had been warmed by the implicit trust, but had queried Mozzie's exclusion. Neal had shrugged, giving the laconic response of, 'hospitals,' clearly believing that it was a sufficient answer. Peter had accepted it, but greater exposure to Mozzie's idiosyncrasies made him suspect that it was the little man's aversion to seeing even a pseudonym in the vaguest proximity to an official document that was the deciding factor. Peter still wished that Mozzie was around to help, and he'd asked El to help find him, but she hadn't been able to locate him, and the only man who could was still lying unconscious in a hospital bed.

The next morning, Peter found himself immensely grateful for his sole authority over Neal's health care when he entered his partner's room for the customary daybreak visit to find that Neal had been put in restraints - straps on his wrists and ankles tying him to the bed. A jagged bolt of fury slashed across his vision, igniting a fire inside that pulsed and coursed through him.

"Get them off," he snapped at Jones who was unlucky enough to be working that guard shift. He matched the command with his own actions, although his hands shook with the force of his anger as he ripped the velcro loose, the tearing noise a satisfying vicious accompaniment to their removal.

Jones hastily duplicated the movements at Neal's feet. "Sorry. The doctor said it was policy." A quick glance shown him that his words had not ameliorated the situation. Peter stood like a hard rock of impenetrable rage, the white strain of anger dusted around lips drawn together into a tight line. "For his own safety," the junior agent tried to clarify further.

The angry fire in Peter's eyes receded into embers of irritation. "I'll sort it out," he responded curtly, striding out of the room to the nurses' station. His immediate assumption on seeing the restraints had been that they were connected to Neal's criminal status, that either Samuelson or the Marshalls had ordered them fastened, seeing Neal as a flight risk, or that the hospital had feared that he might, in some way, be violent. The information that it was for Neal's own good might have blunted his ire, but it made the situation no more acceptable.

Mary was on duty and, seeing the signs of his internal turmoil, rose to greet him, a worried look on her face. "Is everything all right?" She liked the tall FBI agent, respecting his quiet steadiness and reliability. It didn't hurt that he was invariably polite and appreciative of the nurses' work. Right now, though, his frown was hitting levels of nuclear fallout, his eyes pinched and lips drawn down at the corners.

"No. I need to speak to whoever had the bright idea to put Neal in restraints."

"Oh." Mary understood the problem immediately. It wasn't uncommon. "I'll page Dr. Grady." She did so immediately, but the agent didn't look appeased, so she gave a well-practiced explanation. "I know it's upsetting and that it might seem uncaring or even cruel, but there's a very good reason behind it."

"At this point, I'm not interested in explanations," Peter said in a deceptively calm voice. "I've taken them off, and they will not be replaced."

She was taken aback by the implacability of the normally pleasant man, suddenly realising what an effective agent he must be when faced with dangerous criminals.

"It is sometimes necessary to restrain the activity of coma patients to keep them from interfering with medical equipment," she justified hastily, not wanting to be placed in the category of transgressor and hoping to remove the censure from his face. "He could easily pull the tube out of his mouth and hurt himself."

"I accept that you did it for Neal's safety, but you should have consulted me first. What you don't understand is that the last time Neal was tied up, he was then shot while he was helpless." He relented slightly at the shock and dismay on her face and continued in a softer tone. "He's actually had several bad experiences while being restrained and is likely to react...badly."

He was forced to reiterate his arguments when Dr. Grady arrived, and frustration started building in a monotonous vibration in the base of his skull. The doctor pulled him into the briefing room to explain the situation more thoroughly. Early morning sunlight was pouring through the windows, and the doctor was silhouetted dark against the opening as he reached to pull down the blinds. He turned and leant against the window sill as he started talking.

"I understand your concerns, but you need to realise that we are not putting on the restraints for our convenience, but to prevent Neal from hurting himself. He's a strong man, and a sudden movement might rip the feeding tube from his stomach, or take out an IV or even cause him to reinjure his head. I can promise you we use soft restraints which won't hurt him. We will assess him every hour for skin irritation and circulation and check on his safety and mental status. Every four hours, they will be removed for range of motion exercises."

"I'm not worried about the possibility of them hurting him physically." Peter struggled to keep a thin guise of civility covering the anger simmering below. "You're the one who's emphasised that Neal will be emotionally fragile, and I can't think of any worse greeting to the waking world than being tied up."

Grady pushed off from the sill and pulled out a chair opposite Peter, leaning forward earnestly. "Coming out of a coma is not like waking up from sleep. It can be a violent process. Now, we've altered his medication to bring him out of his coma, but he's still sedated because his head wound needs to be stable to heal. Like a computer, his brain is essentially rebooting, and there is a lot of confusion as his systems come on line."

"I hear what you're saying, but I know Neal and I believe he's more likely to hurt himself struggling if he finds himself restrained. I will not allow him to be confined against his will." Peter's voice was as cold and taut as a steel wire.

The doctor nodded his understanding. "That is your prerogative. I'll need you to sign this form indicating your refusal to allow restraints and holding the hospital and all its employees harmless in the event that injury is caused by your rejection of our recommendation."

Peter ran a quick eye over the legalese before scrawling his name, trying to swallow the emotion that suddenly crept up on him. "I'm not trying to be difficult here, Doc. I know we're both trying to do the best thing for Neal, but in a half-conscious state, he is most likely to associate being tied up with an attempt to either imprison or kill him, and I can't do that to him. However, I'll make sure that there is someone he trusts here at all times over the next couple of days to physically reassure and control him as necessary."

It was a compromise that he realised would increase the hours at the hospital for himself, Elizabeth, Jones and Diana, the only people, in Mozzie's absence, that Peter believed fit that category in Neal's estimation. But it seemed a small price to pay for Neal's peace of mind. It was a decision that would haunt him constantly in the next couple of days, but, despite this second guessing, his intuition insisted he'd made the right choice.

The doctor hadn't exaggerated the trauma of the awakening process as Neal's brain struggled, but failed, to come back on line. There were long periods of restless involuntary movements that morphed slowly into agitated kicking. Sometimes his eyes opened, staring with a glassy, faraway look. It was a heartbreaking roller-coaster ride of hope and disappointment. A seeming improvement or change would raise spirits only for them to fall with a sickening thud with each setback.

Most of the swelling around Neal's face had subsided, the bruises fading into a mottled mask of greens and yellows and, with the return of animation to his body, he looked more familiar, though there was still an absence of his inimitable personality. Perhaps the most normal thing about him were what Peter thought of as his escape attempts. He repeatedly threw his legs over the side of the bed as if trying to leave. The medical staff said it wasn't uncommon, but those spasmodic movements reminded Peter of the words he'd written in his bland report - 'he runs'. Even in the weird twilight world between waking and unconsciousness, Neal sensed restrictions and physical limitations, and in true Caffrey style, he kept trying to leave them behind.

They worked together well as a team, the three agents and El supporting and encouraging each other through the vicissitudes and challenges involved in Neal's care, but the brunt of the burden ended up falling on Peter's broad shoulders. Preventing Neal from damaging himself as the doctor had predicted wasn't as easy as Peter had blithely assumed. Despite his liquid diet, Neal was still strong, and he was connected to so many tubes and lines that a quick turn would almost certainly rip out something. In his confused state, Neal often fought with these tethers - one time, on Elizabeth's watch, pulling out his stomach feeding tube and balloon with one tug.

In these increasingly frequent periods of restless disorientation, only Peter was able to calm Neal sufficiently to prevent him hurting himself, the agent's gentle but authoritative voice reaching down into the limbo where his partner's mind wandered untethered and providing an anchor to steady him. Peter had never considered himself the proud owner of a bedside manner. He was more apt to slug a friend on the shoulder and extend a 'cowboy up' than offer comfort, preferring decisive action to verbal reassurance, but he soon lost the awkwardness he'd initially felt at the physical contact and one-way dialogue. He learned to read the minimal cues present in Neal's body language - each twitch, eye movement and change in blood pressure - and stave off the episodes of agitation before they started with a firm hand holding Neal's and the gentle voicing of his name.

During this time, Peter rarely left the hospital room. Neal had a definite sleep/wake pattern, so the agent snatched sleep when his partner was more deeply unconscious and not likely to be restive. It was a wearing schedule, but unavoidable if Neal were to remain without the psychologically damaging restraints. Peter begrudged the time only so much as it hampered his investigation. Samuelson had not bothered them again, but Peter was very aware that once Neal had officially regained consciousness, that grace period would be over, and sick dread burned sourly in his gut at the thought of the dire consequences that could bring. His team brought pertinent files to him, and he read them, often aloud, while one hand rested idly on his friend, maintaining the warmth of contact whenever possible.

Besides being a mainstay of moral support for her husband, Elizabeth found a project of her own to contribute towards Neal's rehabilitation. After hearing that stimulation was critical at this point in his recovery and could be happening at any time even though he didn't appear to be registering anything, she started gathering together a wide variety of materials to encourage the connections within his brain to mend. She taped posters of his favourite art work on the ceiling for those times when blue eyes opened and stared blindly upwards. She stockpiled hours of CDs on every topic from Analytic Cubism to Zenga, Bach to Yanni, attempting reeducation through seemingly unresponsive ears. She even brought different scents to appeal to his sense of smell, and she'd swear he flinched away from the deviled ham sandwich.

Neal had been relocated to the Neurosurgery Ward on the fifth floor, Peter requesting a private room at the end of a corridor to facilitate security. There had been no sign of a threat to Neal, and Peter worried about how long Hughes would allow the protective detail to continue. If charges were officially brought against Neal, and he was labeled as the perpetrator rather than victim of a crime, all justification for keeping them there would be gone. He hoped the schedule would be maintained on a volunteer basis, but it would be difficult.

While external pressures loomed large, there continued to be positive news on Neal's condition. He had dodged the two most dangerous bullets of sepsis and pneumonia and was now breathing well on his own. Even more encouraging were the indications that he was coming out of the coma. His motions had become more purposeful, and occasionally his eyes actually seemed to track movement around him. The doctors called it a minimally responsive state. It was now nearly a week since Neal had been admitted, and those tantalising glimpses of consciousness were more frequent, but true awareness remained elusive.

Peter yawned widely, his jaw cracking with the strain, the numbers in the spreadsheet in front of him blurring into an incomprehensible jumble. He scrubbed roughly at tired eyes, vaguely hoping that this abuse would miraculously restore clear vision. Unsurprisingly, it failed. He had finally procured a comfortable chair, that more often than not doubled as a bed, and now he leant back in it and stretched, trying to work out the multiple kinks in his spine, vertebrae popping like bubblewrap. He then automatically replaced his hand on Neal's forearm, accustomed to using it as a bellwether to assess his partner's status.

Almost immediately, he felt muscles bunch and writhe under his fingers, and he sat forward again with immediate reassurance. "Easy, buddy, just relax. You're safe and we're going to get through this." He'd said some variation of these words countless times over the last few days, and normally it was enough to bring a relaxation of the tension seizing Neal's body, but not this time. He started struggling, a distressed keening escaping from his throat that went straight to Peter's gut like a punch. He moved quickly to sit on the bed, catching Neal's hands as they tried once again to tear out the nasogastric tube.

"Neal...Neal. Stop that. Look at me. Neal, look at me." Neal stilled, although every muscle was rigid, shaking with distress. His eyes were open, and he turned his face towards Peter. There was still something vacant, unconnected, about his gaze, but it wasn't expressionless. Confusion and terror shifted and mixed in heart-breaking proportions. As Neal tested himself against Peter's hold one more time, a tear broke free, trickling sideways down his right temple. At the sight, an iron fist clenched around Peter's heart, stopping it dead. He released his friend abruptly in choking horror as he realised his complicity in Neal's nightmare. It was clear that everything Peter had feared about restraints was coming true, but not as he had imagined. Neal was lost and confined within his own mind, closer than ever to consciousness, but unable to cross the last barrier on his own.

"God, Neal." Peter stared at him in an agony of indecision, needing to be the Orpheus to Neal's Eurydice, to guide him out of hell, though hopefully with a more satisfying ending, but not knowing how. Lyre playing was out, and how did one offer directions when no street map existed for this particular journey? But Peter was incapable of doing nothing while his friend was suffering.

Checking that there was some slack in all the leads leading to Neal's upper body, he slid his hands around Neal's back, very gently pulling him upwards and into his arms, cradling Neal's injured head gently on his shoulder. He hugged him so carefully it couldn't be mistaken as restraint, trying to transfer all his strength, substance and vitality by some physical process of osmosis.

Neal's body was too light, and the ripple of ribs was obvious as Peter smoothed his palm up and down his friend's back, actions always coming easier to him than words.

"Neal." He tried to keep his tone light, but commanding, somehow sensing that his partner needed the security of Agent Burke as much as he needed the friendly embrace. "I know this is confusing and scary, but you need to come back now. I need you to come back now. Just listen to me or follow my voice - that sounds so stupid. You're in the hospital, Mercy Hospital. You hurt your head. It really didn't seem that bad, but I should have got you here immediately. I'm sorry, so sorry I didn't. But you're going to be fine. You're Neal Caffrey, and nothing can keep you down, right? A kid from WitSec who didn't even graduate. You amaze me with what you know and what you can do. So just amaze me one last time."

Peter wasn't even aware of what he was saying; he was just babbling the first things that fell from his lips, believing that the sound of his voice was more important than the meaning of the words. At a pained noise from Neal, Peter reluctantly pulled away, laying his friend back down, suddenly afraid he'd caused more damage in moving him, even thought he'd done little more than he watched the nurses do on a regular basis to prevent bed sores.

He had no expectations, hoping only to relieve Neal's immediate distress, so he was more shocked than pleased at first to see those blue eyes fixed on him, all dark and desperate. Thinking he must have mistaken Neal's focus and awareness, he shifted to the side and watched Neal's gaze follow the movement, maintaining eye contact with an intensity that suggested Peter was a lighthouse, the only hope of refuge in a storm. His breath was fast and shallow, and the heart monitor attested to the triphammering in his chest.

"Easy." Peter kept his voice calm but insistent, wanting to forestall any medical intervention. He placed a hand on Neal's chest and rubbed what he hoped was a comforting circle, as if his friend were a skittish colt. He battened down the joy that threatened to break free, afraid to hope after all the previous disappintments. "Just breathe slowly, come on, in and out. I've got you."

Neal followed his example, eyes never leaving Peter's, his heart rate tapering off to an acceptable level. He reached up shakily, placing his hand on Peter's and latching on to it weakly. It was a simple touch, but the vulnerability and the trust it represented caused Peter's throat to tighten painfully. Moreover, the knowledge gained from listening to many medical briefings told him that this unconscious demonstration of proprioception was a favorable indication that little damage had been suffered by Neal's motor skills, and that brought a delighted smile to Peter's face.

It was more a matter of lip-reading than hearing the word from his friend's mouth, but recognition was clear. "P'ter."


	6. Chapter 6

In the words of a friend of mine - Keep the bromance alive! It's Caffrey/Burke day and this is my celebration of the best bromance, that in my head at least will never be broken.

Senseless Ch 6

Neal Caffrey was a ghost, a will-o-the-wisp, a mote of dust tossed in the waves of space, flotsam carried on the whim of a tide. Tumbling, weightless, heedless, swept around the darkness of outer space by the forces of solar wind and gravity, insignificant and immaterial, quiescent and unfettered. It was nonexistence, immutable, life before the Big Bang.

Stephen Hawking and the other scientists got it wrong. The universe didn't originate with a cosmic explosion, it started with a gentle almost imperceptible, separation into dark and light, black and white. For a length of time impossible to measure because time didn't exist, Neal floated in a dark that had no location or reality and no sensation, an unconcerned deprivation of perception.

In this chiaroscuro cosmos, there was no transition to the white world, no boundary with a gentle gray slide towards the light. The presence of the entire spectrum of light was no different from the absence of all colour. They were both empty and limitless, unfathomable voids that cradled the speck of a lost soul in their immensity.

Since time was irrelevant, there was no beginning and no end, yet eventually there was change, at least in the world of white. First, there was texture, coarse and scratchy, the warp and weft of interwoven fibers rough and billowing. Then, there were contours, the rising and falling of uneven terrain, endlessly white, but forming hills, soft and plump, ribbon-like valleys, crumpled terraces.

Time resumed, but it oozed along like amber with Neal the hapless bug in its path. There were still long periods he traveled insensate but free in the embrace of the dark, but the white universe diminished, shrinking from its infinite bounds, compressing and kneading him in the process. The ethereal changed to the ephemeral, blindly constrained within emptiness. White lights in the white ceiling of the white room pressing smaller to a white straitjacket within a white coffin.

That crushing space was devoid of matter. No objects defiled its pristine landscape. Even his body was absent, but since thought was also mostly in abeyance, this didn't seem strange. Yet, soon sound filtered in from beyond the bland bubble that encased him - muffled, indistinct, irrelevant noises. The snick of scissors, the shuffle of feet, the squeak of a rusty wheel, the rustle of papers. In some bizarre antithesis of hierarchy, this auditory detritus expanded to include more significant sounds - the hum and beeps of machinery and, most importantly, voices which drifted in and out like tides rising and falling. There were no words, just cadences, pitch and tone, a low muttering that rumbled in the background, white noise in the white room.

From this babel of unintelligible voices, one was distinct, seeming to resonate on a sympathetic frequency, penetrating through the deflective shield that surrounded him, bringing warmth and comfort with it. That low, authoritative and familiar timbre was as wordless as the others, yet it still spoke of friendship, stability and shelter. It was dependable, and it was protective, and no matter how lost Neal was, it would always find him...no, HE would always find him. The voice aroused the dormant concept of emotion. He looked forward to hearing it, but that was a double-edged sword, because it sliced him with the accompanying concept of loneliness when those steadfast tones were absent.

The possessor of the voice remained as disembodied as Neal himself, but Neal learnt to recognise his presence even in the silence, from the scent of Old Spice and gun oil and the mental taste of brass and sunsets and laughter and safety.

Time moved unevenly, clotting in snarls of endless hours only to lurch and stream through his fingers. He became more conscious of his own plight, realising he was trapped, a prisoner in a cramped, confined space, and not even sinking into the dark was an escape any more. The sensation terrified him, and a pervading feeling of despair enveloped him. It seemed he had a strong aversion to being caged, tied down and closed in. He struggled and squirmed, kicked and fought, or at least he thought he did, but maybe he truly was a phantom or his physical self was paralysed, and it was only his mind twisting and flexing in a frantic attempt to flee.

In these moments of desperation, the voice shone out like a beam of strong, uninterrupted light through a storm, offering hope and sanctuary. It dissolved his panic and, in doing so, loosened the fetters around his ribs, allowing for breath to swoop back into his lungs, burning his throat in passing. He relaxed, allowing that low murmur to wash over him, lazily following its tempo and rhythm. The pauses and stresses and pitch were chords in a symphony, but still lacked accompanying lyrics.

In the fuzzed edges of his mind, it occurred to him to wonder why he was there. Was this just a nebulous dream or was he really dead, a ghost in his own life, drifting through unnoticed and unacknowledged? He felt both a great detachment and a tremendous restlessness at the idea and tasted bitter tears running down around the corners of his mouth.

Eventually, he decided he'd been in a car accident in some remote location. His world of white was the snowbound conditions which caused the crash, and his seat belt was preventing any movement. Maybe he'd ended upside down in a ditch, which would explain his disorientation. His vision was impeded by the frost on the windshield, flaring up in brilliant white as another car passed, brights on high, and dying into black as he passed into night unrescued. He was vaguely proud of this theory and how it fit the facts...well, most of them. It didn't account for the voice though, or the way that, recently, its soft tones acted like the defrost setting on the icy glass in front of him, filtering in blurry, smeared images. They were just confusing, patchwork bits and pieces, but they were also the first hint of color in his achromatic world.

It wasn't long before there always seemed to be movement in his peripheral vision, but it was gone when he tried to focus in. It felt like he was watching the world from deep underwater, ten fathoms of ocean clouding his view of the surface. Maybe his car had sunk, or maybe...something teased, tickling his memory. There had been a submarine. Maybe he was submerged in a submarine, running out of air, sinking further into the murky depths.

Days passed, or maybe it was merely hours. It was impossible to judge the passage of time without some external yardstick against which to measure it. Colour had returned, but mostly it consisted of washed-out pastels, anemic impostors, but still very welcome. The glimpses he saw outside his closed, pale world made no sense - a bridge, dancers, a dragon. Disembodied faces occasionally swam into his field of view, but they were distorted caricatures, the smearing of an artist's palette. Despite their fearsome appearance, he tried to communicate with them, to ask questions or simply scream out his frustration, but they inevitably floated on by, abandoning him to his confinement.

Sensation started to return, though his nerves seemed oddly numb, as if he were feeling things through the thick plastic of a body bag. The greatest irritant was something poking roughly at his nostrils, and he repeatedly tried to swipe it away, but never succeeded. There was a periodic sense of pressure around his upper arm. Strangest of all were the cold, impersonal hands that pulled at him, carefully rearranging him. They weren't rough, but he tried to fight them off, physically, if not verbally, attempting to express his objection, terrified of their casual, intimate invasion of his body. Yet, as if it were the geiger counter to Neal's radioactivity of panic, the Voice would immediately strike up a soothing litany, offering both comfort and a distraction. It was now invariably accompanied by a warm, familiar touch.

He strained to understand the Voice, knowing it was a lifeline - if he could just properly grasp it, it would pull him out of limbo into safety. It was like turning the dials on a badly tuned radio, needing to find that auditory sweet spot where the signal would come in clear and strong. He focused completely, blocking out everything else and narrowing in like a laser beam of light and, somewhat to his surprise, words separated themselves from the steady stream of sound like individual drops of water from a flowing faucet.

He listened eagerly, but despite each word being distinct, he understood nothing. Apparently, the Voice spoke Ukrainian, or, for all he knew, it could be Uzbek. No, it was too familiar for that. His perception narrowed, concentrating on the thread of language, and realised it was English, just an unintelligible, jumbled, Jabberwockian form. He should be able to comprehend the words; they were evocative, and he could almost grasp their meaning, but for some reason they slithered tantalizingly out of his reach. It was disconnected as if he were listening to a badly synchronized sound track which didn't match the movie.

Disappointment and frustration flooded through him, and they brought an accompanying sense of desperation. The thought of remaining trapped and imprisoned here was unbearable. His ribs felt as if they were shrinking, expelling all the air from his lungs and tightening around his heart, sending its frantic beat pounding through him. Terror-fueled adrenaline gave him the strength to fight his unseen shackles, pulling every muscle taut until he was shaking with the strain. Almost immediately, gentle hands restrained him, and he was forced to subside. The realisation of his complete helplessness forced tears of despair from his eyes, tracking a wet path down his temples.

There was a pained exclamation from above him, then warm arms wrapped round him, lifting him up and forward to rest against a solid, warm chest. He wasn't sure how ineffable security could also feel like complete freedom, but all nightmare scenarios of sinking cars and dungeon imprisonments dissolved like wafers in acid. Reality clicked into place like the final piece of a puzzle completing a picture. He was in the hospital and he was cared for. The Voice rumbled out of the chest sheltering him, steady and strong, and Neal latched onto it, allowing it to drag him along. The meaning still broke apart like waves hitting the breakwater, but it no longer bothered him. He allowed himself to enjoy the rhythm they offered, somehow knowing it was meant as reassurance.

He was surprised when two words slipped over the linguistic barrier like rogue tidal waves breaking over his awareness - "Neal Caffrey." The tsunami of significance they contained startled a noise out of him, and he soon found himself gently lowered back into what he now knew was a hospital bed. He briefly caught sight of the dragon on the ceiling - Raphael, his mind helpfully supplied, but it was just a glimpse, because his eyes never wavered from the now recognizable figure in front of him who was rubbing small soothing circles against his chest.

What had happened? Why was he here? Neal's heart-rate skyrocketed, and his breathing heaved in uncontrolled gasps as he plumbed the great hole in his memory and failed to come up with answers. Something terrible had to have caused the careworn look on his partner's face. His skin looked pale, contrasting with the dark hollows around his eyes. Even his hair looked longer as if he'd missed a scheduled cut.

"Easy." Peter's eyes were steady on his, brown pools of endless support and strength, and Neal followed his advice on breathing with only a brief mental hiccup at the stray thought of Lamaze classes. "I've got you." Given their story, that maybe shouldn't have been as comforting as it was, but the weight of the words was as solid as steel, and Neal drew comfort from them, savouring the texture and taste of their sustenance. His heart slowed its frantic pounding as he grounded himself on his friend's unwavering, steadfast presence.

Peter shifted slightly, sending a pang of fear through Neal. Thinking Peter intended to leave, Neal reached up shakily to grasp his friend's hand. It felt like eons had passed since he'd made a proactive move, and he enjoyed the sense of control it gave him. He tried to say his partner's name, but it stuttered uncertainly and faded as it reached his lips, but you'd have thought he'd recited the entire season's baseball statistics by the delighted smile that stretched across Peter's haggard features, temporarily removing the shadows of anxiety from his eyes.

Questions swam in Neal's mind like a flock of frantic ducks, each flapping its wings and squawking, but remaining just out of reach, so he threw an expression of mute appeal at his friend who was watching him intently.

"You were in an accident and hurt your head," Peter responded to the unspoken question. "You've been unconscious for a week."

Neal raised an eyebrow in alarmed enquiry, and Peter hastened to reassure him. "I know it sounds bad, but you're going to be fine."

Neal tried to force his vocal chords into action. He opened his mouth, attempted a word, wincing at the rough twinge in his throat. After a few trials, he croaked out, "Mmm'dc'l ddd..."

As usual, Peter understood what he was trying to say. "No, I don't have a medical degree. I'll leave that to Mozzie. I'm sure he has the trifecta of professional degrees. He's a lawyer and a minister. I would be very surprised to hear that he doesn't have a piece of paper somewhere in his possession identifying him as a doctor."

There was a response that Neal wanted to make, that involved the concepts of challenge and discovery, but he couldn't quite formulate the words even in his own mind, so he just wagged a knowing finger at his friend, eliciting another grin.

"I've tried to contact Mozzie," Peter informed him more soberly. "But I haven't been able to reach him. Is he still out of town? Do you know a way I can get in touch with him?"

It was too complicated. Trying to think of Mozzie's plans led him into a grey mist of confusion. It wasn't that he couldn't remember exactly, it was just too muddled, chronology no longer linear, but tangled into a kitten-wrecked ball of yarn.

The monitor quickened as his heart skipped a beat, and Peter hastily retracted. "Not that it's at all important right now. To answer your earlier question, I may not have a medical degree, but I've been talking to lots of people who have." His eyes darted to the monitor, keeping a careful watch on his friend's vitals and deciding to err on the side of circumspection rather than candidness, ignoring the 'marathon not a sprint' metaphor for the finish line. "You're going to be just fine."

Neal regarded his friend's weary features, the lines of exhaustion bracketing his eyes and mouth and the black shadows devouring the skin under his eyes. With an impatient frown, he prodded a question into Peter's ribs with his finger.

"Ow, quit that." There was no rancor in Peter's voice, just amusement. "What do you...oh, no, I wasn't hurt." The eyebrow spoke quizzically, so Peter elaborated. "I wasn't even there."

It was clearly intended to reassure, but it dropped stark and heavy between them. Peter obviously felt guilty over his absence at the crucial period, and Neal wanted to say something comforting in return, but even if his brain had been cooperating, he didn't know what he could say since he remembered absolutely nothing of the incident. He couldn't tell if Peter had genuine cause for his guilt, if an operation had gone bad under his watch, or if it was his friend's overdeveloped sense of responsibility acting up again.

After a moment's silence, Peter started again. "Look, El's fine, Diana's fine, Jones is fine, everyone's fine. The truth is we're not really sure what happened to you, but I promise you, I will find out. I don't want you worrying about it, but if you remember anything at any point, please share. However, don't try to force it. The doctors say there's a good chance you'll never remember the incident itself."

That was a disturbing concept for a man whose life had sometimes depended on keeping the threads of his past disparate and divergent, so he immediately began to worry at the hole in his memory as if it were a particularly annoying morsel of food stuck in his teeth.

"Stop that," Peter said automatically, as if he could see Neal's tongue poking at the metaphorical irritant. He tapped at Neal's hand in a similar way he would have swatted at Satchmo's nose with a handy newspaper, and Neal withdrew his hand in dudgeon, although the small twitch in the corner of his mouth belied his irritation. "I'm going to call your doctors in," Peter continued. "They're going to want to know you've joined the ranks of the conscious."

Neal started to shake his head vehemently, but stopped almost immediately as the movement created an uncomfortable woozy feeling as if his brain were sloshing around loosely in his skull.

"Neal, stop," Peter cried out in alarm, wrapping a large hand prohibitively around the uninjured side of his friend's head to prevent a repetition of the mistake. He met Neal's frightened gaze steadily. "You've got to take things easy for a while. You've had a bad concussion, and the doctors had to operate.

Neal's hand wandered up to explore the damage, but it was intercepted. "Things might be confusing for a while as your brain sorts things out, but we're going to get through this. Now, since we've established that the last few credits of my medical degree are missing, I'm going to call the doctors in so they can check that all your marbles are rolling in the right direction. Okay?"

Neal blinked tiredly, more in surrender than agreement. Two fingers slipped inside the sleeve of Peter's sweatshirt as if Neal intended on pickpocketing his watch, then twisted around, pulling the material tight against the agent's wrist and keeping him trapped. There was a childish vulnerability in the gesture that wrenched Peter's heart, but he gave no indication that it seemed unusual. He'd talked to Pamela Witt, the team psychologist who had cautioned him to expect uncharacteristic behaviour for a while, that Neal's emotions would be much closer to the surface, and he would be prone to frustration, anger, mood swings and even tears.

Peter pushed the button to summon a nurse and explained the situation. In the ensuing prodding, poking and questioning, Neal started to fade out. The doctors' words twisted and inverted, slapping against his ears as auditory dyslexia, making his brain feel unanchored, floating along at the end of its tether, bobbing dully against his skull.

Peter hadn't moved from his position on the bed, despite hints from the medical professionals. Neal suspected that the agent had appointed himself as a human shield, his body forming a living fortress for Neal, allowing him to block out the rest of the world, centering on one goal, one pulse in the chaotic chord surrounding him, so that everything else faded away to white noise. Neal took his cues from Peter. If the agent deemed a question important enough to direct it at him, Neal did his best to answer, at least non-verbally. Otherwise, he ignored all attempts to engage him. It wasn't long before the blanket of exhaustion smothered him back into sleep, his fingers still firmly entwined in Peter's sleeve.

He spent the next day or so drifting serenely in and out of consciousness, never really aware of his surroundings, but not really experiencing the weird nether world either. He was disoriented when he finally woke up, his surroundings unfamiliar and his own presence there inexplicable. He knew the woman sitting by his bed reading a book, recognised her as Peter's wife, but he couldn't seem to remember her name, and that was frightening. Everything had slowed down to treacle in his head. A vague memory crept in of Peter's face, bone-deep exhaustion evident in the hollowness of his eyes. How could he have forgotten an event that left him in the hospital and his partner looking so drawn and battered?

The beautiful lady, Peter's wife, was speaking to him, and he sensed the soft caring in her tone, but he couldn't hear anything beyond the screaming void in his head as he frantically rummaged for the missing information, scouring and ransacking his mind in vain. Fear snaked up his spine, settling in cold and stiff. She reached out a gentle hand, but he pulled away, trembling. Every cell in his body seemed on the verge of an explosion, as if his skin couldn't contain the violent emotions pent up inside.

He tried to ask her a question, but the words chased each other away, becoming lost somewhere between the intent and his mouth. Breathing was becoming more difficult, his lungs grasping at air and failing to get hold of anything. His heart thudded arrhythmically and a continuous beep assaulted his ears. Then, in a sudden blur of movement, and like a rumpled, sleep-deprived superhero, Peter was there. Neal dimly registered that his partner must have been asleep on the cot.

"Breathe!" Peter ordered, and Neal realised that he was dizzy. He was pulled into a tight embrace, his friend holding him as if he expected Neal to fight him, but Neal sank gratefully in to the comforting touch as if Peter were gravity personified. His world was filled with whirling confusion, and Peter was the one solid, fixed point - the eye of the hurricane.

After a few minutes, he regained a modicum of equilibrium, no longer feeling that he was poised on the brink of an irrevocable slide into complete derangement. Either Peter decided he was sufficiently calm, or he met some other criteria on the scale of one to insanity, because the agent released him, propping him back against the pillows. Neal pressed the fingertips of his left hand to his head to try to alleviate the pain that snaked, heavy and languid under the bone."S-s-s-sorry. F-f'got." He gestured to the place where the woman had been sitting, noticing she had now disappeared from the room.

"Elizabeth?" Peter didn't seem upset or to regard this as a slight to his wife. "Did you not remember her at all, or is it just her name that's gone?"

"N-name."

"Well, that's actually a good thing." Neal let his left eyebrow speak for him. "The doctors explain it better than I could. Do you remember what I told you on Sunday...the last time we spoke?" he quickly amended. The eyebrow indicated assent. "Between the blow on the head, the operation and the coma, your neurons are rather scrambled and they aren't really talking to each other. It's just going to take a bit of time for them to reconnect." He shrugged. "I don't know. When they start talking about neurons, I tend to tune them out and go straight to the bottom line where your brain will sort it all out."

That sounded good to Neal. He'd always lived by his quick wits, but now his brain was moving at the speed of a mollusk, and it terrified him. It wasn't long before the medical hoards descended again, and while, on the one hand, an increase in pain medication was a welcome relief, it did nothing to clear the cobwebs in his mind. The doctors had suggested that Peter leave, but Neal had interjected with a vehement and remarkably clear, "NO!" so Peter had shifted his chair so he was out of the way and afforded the patient some privacy. But he remained in the room, unwavering and steadfast, like a carved granite statue, a memorial to dependability and bedrock decency.

The evaluation was even more thorough than the last one. It took a lot of concentration, but this time, if Neal listened carefully, he could understand all the instructions. They pronounced him to be in remarkably good physical condition though with some weakness of the right side which should be treatable with physical therapy. Neal wasn't sure how they'd reached that conclusion since in his opinion, both sides, front and back were as limp as overcooked spaghetti. Finally divested of the majority of the leads that had been monitoring him, he was encouraged to walk the few yards to the bathroom, with the provisos that he used a walker and was accompanied by a nurse to ensure he didn't fall and hit his head again - a possibility he was cautioned gravely to avoid, since it could be fatal.

Prison had taught him to compartmentalize humiliation - survival and necessity trumped personal boundaries and privacy - but he bitterly resented the betrayal of his own body. Lightning reflexes, finely-tuned motor skills and agility had been his to command, his faithful allies in the battle of wits that was a conman's life. Now, a journey of a few feet had left him shaking like a defective jellyfish. As he was helped back into bed, he wanted to curl up into a ball. He expected to see pity or at least concern in Peter's face, but there was only pride.

"I always thought you were born with a double helping of stubbornness, a side order of insubordination with a huge dollop of bloody-mindedness on top. I just never thought it was a positive attribute before."

Neal threw him a silent and slightly sulky question which Peter quickly lobbed back. "I truly thought you'd take one step and face plant on the floor - gracefully, I'm sure, in true Caffrey style, but kiss the carpet nevertheless."

"Agent Burke is correct," Dr. Hussein corroborated. "That was quite impressive for a first attempt after being so long inactive. I have a schedule here for your appointments with the therapy team who will help you in your recovery." Handing over the list, he headed out of the room, the last of the medical professionals to leave.

Peter plucked the piece of paper from Neal's disinterested fingers. "It looks like you're going to have a busy social schedule even here in hospital. Hey look, 2:30 occupational therapy. Do you think picking locks and lifting wallets are considered an occupation?"

There was so much that Neal wanted to say in response to that, but he contented himself with his most innocent expression, though it was spoilt by the lack of a fedora tipped over one eye and a stuttered, "P-p-perjury."

Peter's mouth twisted in appreciation. "Save that for the speech therapist at..." he checked the paper, "4:30."

They continued to chat for some time, with Peter teasing him, trying to provoke him into response. He even pulled out a crossword, coming up with increasingly ridiculous incorrect answers until Neal capitulated and contributed a suggestion. It wasn't subtle, he knew what Peter was doing, but it was fun. As the shallow pool of words available to him deepened, he also had to admit it was effective. Eventually, his eyes drifted shut, as he was lulled back into sleep by the peace and security he felt inside himself.

He was awakened by a nurse with an overly cheerful attitude and a rattling cart. Peter had a file opened on his knees and politely immersed himself more deeply in its pages as the nurse administered to Neal's needs, including another trip to the bathroom. It was a smoother experience this time, easier to compensate for his compromised balance, and he found his strength a little more certain. This tentative contentment was obliterated when the nurse placed a food tray in front of him.

"Oh look, Neal," Peter piped in obnoxiously. "You've graduated to baby food." Neal looked at the glop in the plastic glass in front of him with absolute horror, then turned his most plaintive expression on the nurse. But clearly the Caffrey charm was another attribute that hadn't survived the head injury, since she remained oblivious to his appeal, and merely explained chirpily, "You haven't had any solid food for over a week. You have to build up to it gradually or it will make you sick."

Neal yearned to explain that the odd-colored liquid masquerading as food in front of him was likely to achieve that goal with far greater dispatch, but all he managed was a slight moan.

Peter wasn't as inarticulate. "If it was anyone else, I'd tell them to pretend it was a milkshake, but you should probably pretend its gazpacho or something pretentious like that."

Neal directed a glare in his direction, but Peter had always been impervious to that expression. If the agent uttered the words 'cowboy up' he'd be wearing the ersatz food, Neal decided and cocked an eyebrow of challenge in Peter's direction. Peter lifted a hand in surrender, but still nodded encouragingly towards the glass. "Eat that, and I promise that as soon as the doctor okays solid food, I'll smuggle you in your choice of El's cooking."

Neal told himself that he was yielding to the wisdom of the suggestion, not the bribery, knowing he had to build back his strength. The concoction wasn't completely inedible, but it was blandly revolting, definitely nothing to inspire a depressed appetite, and he sipped at it in a desultory fashion under his friend's eagle eye while running through the numerous ways he could dispose of it surreptitiously in the limited space he had available. He had reached five, possibly six if he could access the bed's hollow frame, when he noticed Peter's distraction. "S-s..ing, w-wrong? he queried.

He knew Peter too well to mistake the signs of impending bad news. It loomed in the tilt of his head, the purse of his lips and, most tellingly, in the avoidance of eye gaze. "Nothing's wrong," his friend insisted, although the fingers tapping impatiently on the arm of his chair argued differently. Sensing the weakness of his statement, he continued reluctantly, "I've got about twenty minutes, then I need to go into work."

Neal stared at him blankly for a few seconds before dragging an ill-fitting mask of disinterest over his face, trying to conceal his shock and anxiety. He felt stupid, not a sensation to which he was accustomed. It wasn't exactly that he'd forgotten the existence of the FBI, it was more a matter that his perception had not expanded to include the realities of the world much beyond the hospital room. It literally hadn't occurred to him to wonder how Peter had managed to spend so much time with him. It was frightening just how randomly and illogically his brain was functioning, also just how much he wanted to beg Peter not to leave. Neal was a man who genuinely enjoyed human company and liked people, yet, with a couple of exceptions, relationships had been a disposable commodity, as transient as the places he visited in his peripatetic lifestyle. Yet, Peter had become his anchor, a sanctuary in a turbulent sea. Neal tried to smile casually, but the muscles in his face were in rebellion and refused the assignment. He scrubbed the heel of his hands over his eyes, trying to ignore the heavy, bereft sensation.

"I wouldn't go if it wasn't important," Peter's voice held a pained undertone, forcing Neal to wave a dismissive hand in his direction, telling him to go to work, this was business as usual, these aren't the droids you're looking for. Jedi mind tricks had never worked on Peter Burke, who continued doggedly. "Here's my number." He wrote swiftly on a pad besides Neal's bed. "If you need me for any reason, call, and I'll be here within 15 to 20 minutes. Even if I'm not here, there'll always be someone here you know - El, Diana, Jones."

Neal felt enormous relief when his mind proved to him that he was still capable of ratiocination, noticing there was something cagey in the way Peter had announced that, and putting the clues together. "B-body..." He fished for the second part of the compound word, but it remained elusive.

"That's certainly part of it," Peter responded. "It's probably not necessary. There's been no sign of any threat while you've been here, but I'm not taking any risks."

That tightlipped determined pronouncement was comfortingly familiar in its sensible practicality and professionalism, and so typically Peter that Neal was able to offer him an honest smile, tired and subdued as it was, and to shoo him off in earnest. Diana replaced him on protection detail, but although happy to see her, Neal felt incapable of the effort of communication and soon hunkered down and feigned sleep. The downside of this was that it left him with nothing for distraction but his own thoughts, which circled menacingly like vultures over roadkill, then tumbled into freefall. Peter's departure immediately left him feeling disconnected and untethered. He felt a lump form in his throat, his eyes burning threateningly with the touch of unshed tears.

He hated feeling so lost, hollow with confusion and misery. The situation was light years past intolerable, and he squirmed under its relentless inescapability. He felt the ingrained automatic urge to run, to place several states, if not a continent, between him and the catastrophe encompassing his life, but he couldn't flee from himself. He was a prisoner, shackled not by manipulatable handcuffs or even the limits of his physical body, but by his mind, the radius imposed on it far more limiting than that of his now-missing anklet.

Neal didn't make a good patient, and he hated the rules and restrictions of hospital stays, not often bound by their sway, since Steve Tabernacle and George Devore rarely could afford the luxury of the paper trail of insurance. He also felt constrained by the surveillance of his FBI colleagues, benevolent in intent though it was. He preferred to establish his own security precautions and chafed under the unaccustomed role of passive, helpless pawn. He wanted to contact Mozzie and could remember several of the near catalog of SOS signals he could send up, but they required his liberation, or at least Peter's cooperation, and he didn't yet see the need to burn perfectly good emergency preparation.

The memory shadow of strong, independent Neal even mildly resented the fact that he seemed to have imprinted on Peter like a newlyborn hatchling, but he couldn't deny the relief he felt in Peter's presence, the way his partner provided the gravity that stabilised him while his mind threatened to bleed out among distant stars. It wasn't even really new. His volatile life had always needed a stable counterweight, and Peter provided that in spades. yet somehow came with the bonus of being a radical catalyst, sparking Neal to new heights of creativity on an unforeseen path.

In the next couple of days, Neal worked with a grim, almost desperate, perseverance with his therapists, especially with his speech pathologist, Mary Kline, who pinpointed the exact form of his aphasia. His receptive skills had already returned, and he now had little to no problem understanding others, but much of his own normally extensive vocabulary had withered away to a shriveled skeleton. At his first appointment with Mary, she had held up black and white line drawings of everyday objects like strawberries and screwdrivers. He could taste these objects, feel them under his hands, even describe how to use them, but their names had simply vanished, victims of his damaged brain. He also hadn't realised that his speech often included words in completely the wrong context. Mary offered him the temporary use of a Communication Board to facilitate his dialogue with the nursing staff and ensure his needs were met. Neal looked at the large laminated card, then with the use of speech, gesture and mime conveyed the concept that he'd rather chew on a live hand grenade than use the card, demonstrating that his communication skills were improving daily. On the more positive side, his physical abilities were almost completely restored, his stamina rapidly increasing.

During the day, when he wasn't working on restoring his lost faculties, Neal mostly slept. Peter worked during the day and returned to the hospital in the evening, and Neal preferred to be awake for his visits. He was self-conscious about his halting speech and, in an effort to spare him embarrassment, most of his friends finished his sentences for him, trying to spare them all the frustration of him stammering in vain. As well intentioned as it was, it galled him bitterly. It was different with Peter. Verbal speech had long ago become a secondary mode of communication between them. Peter never misunderstood him, never corrected his word selection or indicated impatience at his slow speech. He carried conviction in Neal's recovery when Neal had none, watching him without pity, but with utter faith. He didn't treat Neal as an invalid in any way; they continued their partnership by going over case files together. Peter's most recent case involved a company called Agroking Implements International. They could both spot examples of creative accounting in the spreadsheets, and the setup of the company's offshore accounts certainly indicated money laundering, but it wasn't clear who was benefitting from these actions.

"M-m-mexico, prolly d-drums," Neal suggested.

"I'm sure the drug cartels are involved in some way," Peter agreed. "Maybe they're using Agroking to smuggle drugs." Together, they spent the evening unsuccessfully searching for a smoking gun in the documents that would give them cause for a search warrant.

The third day after Neal had emerged from his coma, he was awakened in the afternoon by the sound of loud angry voices outside his room. He still tended to experience a few moments of fear and confusion on waking, just before awareness set in, and this made the sensations more acute. He pushed himself into a sitting position, heart thumping wildly, pushing a hand absently through what remained of his hair, and straining his ears to follow the conversation outside. He wished he'd remained oblivious as he caught the sharp anger in Diana's hissed comment.

"...not coming in here. I'm calling Agent Burke."

A man's voice responded with heat. "I have a warrant that says I can. I've been patient, but now I'm going in. If you try to stop me, I'll arrest you for obstruction of justice."

Diana again insisted he waited for her boss's arrival, and this delay gave Neal time to get to the phone and, with clumsy fingers, dial the number that Peter had left. It was the first time he'd called, so Peter's voice was understandably worried. "Neal?"

"Come, n-now. P-police."

Peter uttered a rare imprecation. "I'm coming. Stay right there."

There was a moment's silence, then the sound of a phone ringing outside the room. This time, the unknown male voice started swearing. Neal had no idea what was going on and hated to be so uninformed, but the sound brought a smile to his face. He knew who was on the other end of the line. He couldn't hear Peter's part of the conversation, which seemed to dominate the dialogue, the policeman hardly managing to get a word in.

Despite Peter's stricture, Neal cast around for a possible escape route, more out of habit than genuine intent. He was on the fifth floor, and the windows were sealed, which only left the crawl spaces in the ceiling, which would be hard to access. His impulse was to try anyway, just to spite the voice outside, but he realised that, without more information, his actions could simply exacerbate the situation.

It was clear that Peter, on the other end of a phone, could not physically prevent the cop from entering Neal's room, although he conducted an excellent delaying action, giving Neal time to compose himself and also to ponder for which crime he was to be arrested. No one knew better than he did how many there were to choose from, but he also believed that there were few that could be linked back to him.

Diana entered first, clearly furious but ultimately powerless in this situation. "Neal, this is Detective Samuelson."

"Oh, we've already met, haven't we Caffrey?" The policeman was solidly built, topped by a ten-dollar cop special buzzcut, and Neal would swear he had never met him before. That was when the realisation crept in - this wasn't his past catching up with him. It was his present creeping up and ambushing him. Alarm skittered on the surface of his skin, raising the fine hairs, and his heart started beating in double time.

"Neal Caffrey, you are under arrest for the murder of Garrett Fowler."


	7. Chapter 7

Senseless Ch 7

Peter Burke was a man who thrived on stressful situations, surfing effortlessly on the crest of a pressure wave. Like a finely-oiled machine, he kicked joyfully into high gear in response to firm force on the accelerator. He enjoyed the exercise of his mind, reveling in the bombardment of competing demands and the satisfaction of a puzzle unraveled.

Yet right now, he felt as if he were juggling several extra-large heavy balls in the air at once - Neal's physical health as his next of kin, his safety as his partner, his mental well-being as his friend, all while monitoring the NYPD case and keeping Samuelson away from him. Peter was burning the candle at both ends, living on coffee that tasted of desperation - bitter and acrid in his mouth. Instinct told him that he was following a fruitful investigative trail, that it was likely connected to Fowler's death, but Peter's goals in this case were very specific and although he'd made progress in the case against Agroking, it wasn't a certainty that it would help clear Neal.

From Peter's vantage point in his office, he looked down at the depleted bullpen - only Jones, Blake and Susan could be seen. Diana's desk was empty because she was on protection detail at the hospital. Neal's space, in contrast, looked abandoned, derelict. There were no case files or personal items to indicate an imminent return, just a small Greek bust standing guard like a marker on a grave site. He missed Neal. Their relationship had started with Peter chasing Neal, progressing for a short time to him yanking Neal along behind him, but now they ran side by side as partners, sharing cases and laughter in equal proportions.

Peter became aware that he was staring blankly at the spreadsheet in front of him, eyes unfocused, columns of figures swimming in a soup of useless black ink. He wasn't sure if it was distraction or lack of sleep interfering with his concentration. Either way, he was initially pleased by the diversion when his phone rang, but experienced a jolt of alarm as he recognised the number. This was the first time Neal had availed himself of the opportunity for this form of contact. Peter believed this was because his friend's impaired speech made it an intimidating form of communication, not because he was averse to pestering Peter at work.

"Neal?" Peter was already gathering his things for a hasty departure. The three halting, yet urgent, words he heard sent him bolting for the exit, but he retained the clarity of mind to pull Samuelson up from the contacts on his phone and punch the call button. The hot swell of fury rising in him was chilled at the edges by fear. The last grains of sand were trickling out of the hourglass, and he wasn't ready. He knew he was always protective of his younger partner, but that was usually tempered by tremendous respect for Neal's abilities. No one was more capable of worming, vaulting or simply sprinting his way out of trouble. Now, that was no longer the case. Neal was helpless, vulnerable, both mentally and physically, in a way he'd never been before, and Peter felt the compulsion to safeguard him. His preference would be a locked, but not airtight, vault in the center of a police station in the middle of Fort Knox. Of course, Neal would then plot to steal all the gold and break out, so maybe Peter would just have to settle for any secure, concealed location.

As Samuelson answered the phone sounding wary, Peter took a deep breath, reminding himself that getting into a pissing contest with the detective would not help Neal. "I thought we had an agreement." The words weren't particularly tactful, but he forced mildness into the tone.

"Come on, Burke. I've cut you all the slack I can. There's no evidence there was anyone else in the apartment or any outstanding motive for someone to murder Fowler."

"Fowler was a long-standing FBI agent in the Violent Crimes division. Don't tell me there aren't other suspects."

"None that were in the apartment holding the gun that shot him," the detective shot back acerbically. "Look, you may have a good case for self-defense, I don't know. That's not up to me to decide, but I have to formally charge him. We can arrange for the arraignment to be from his hospital bed if his condition still warrants it. I'm not here to drag him out of the hospital."

"Okay." Fairness forced Peter to agree that Samuelson had been reasonable. He knew from experience that procedure could only be delayed for so long. "Just wait until I get there." Peter was already in his car, driving out of the parking garage even as he one-handedly strapped the seat belt on.

"I don't have time for this. You don't need to be there to hold his hand."

The Taurus bolted like a startled pony as Peter's tension translated to a twitchy foot. "I'm just looking for a little compassion here. He doesn't remember anything. This is going to be enough of an ambush; he needs some support from friends."

Samuelson snorted in disbelief. "You're telling me he's got amnesia? That only happens in soap operas. He's snowing you, Burke."

This time Peter's flinch sent him barreling over a red light, and he raised his hand in a cursory apology to anyone who cared. He tried to keep the disdain out of his voice. "It's not that kind of amnesia. It's not like he's forgotten his name or his life story." At this point, Peter was simply playing for time, so he decided to throw in a medical lesson, having discussed the topic several times with Neal's medical team. "That's called retrograde amnesia and it's rare, but Neal has traumatic amnesia which is fairly common after a head injury. He doesn't remember anything about that day."

The next light was turning red, but Peter decided that stopping was more of a suggestion than a requirement. The flood of unwanted medical intelligence appeared to have silenced Samuelson who didn't want to seem uninformed himself. Finally the detective snapped, "You have five minutes," and closed his phone.

New York traffic was not conducive to speed, but Peter shaved every second off the journey that he could, straining the limits of legality as well as of courtesy. He knew he had no chance of beating the deadline, but hoped to arrive in time to minimize the damage. Once inside the hospital, a quick glance told him that the three elevators in that wing were all on different floors so he opted for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He had miscalculated badly and the metaphorical kicking he was applying to his own rear end propelled him to the fifth floor.

Neal was still blissfully ignorant of the events that had placed him in the hospital. In self-exculpation, Peter could truly say that it wasn't his idea. Neal's psychologist had been convinced it would be detrimental to his recovery, that his mind was presently too frail to be burdened by the knowledge that he was the prime suspect in a murder. She insisted that this information should be introduced carefully when Neal indicated some interest in the circumstances that had led to his coma and, as yet, his curiosity remained in abeyance. Peter had questioned this decision more for its practicality than its wisdom. He'd allowed himself to be overruled, hoping his investigation would render the entire issue moot.

Neal had made encouraging strides in his recovery, but it was a pockmarked road and there was still a lot of improvement to be made, especially emotionally. Peter had never seen Neal so quiet and tired, detached from the world around him and distant with most of his friends. Perhaps most disconcerting was the lack of his customary mask. There was something open and unguarded about his face, maybe because he now communicated so much with his expressions rather than relying on clever words. When Peter arrived in the evenings he was usually greeted with a smile that broke over Neal's face like fireworks lighting up a clear night sky, but there were times when Neal was angry, struggling and projecting anger around himself like a bubble, frustrated at his unaccustomed limitations. The bottom line was that he still needed to work with his therapy team, and Peter would fight tooth, nail and legal statute to prevent Neal from being removed from this secure environment.

Outside Neal's room, Peter paused a moment, both to refill aching lungs and in the hope of gaining some foreknowledge of what to expect inside. There was no sound he could hear, which didn't bode well, so he barged through the door. His abrupt entrance interrupted the tense scene inside, but a snapshot of the tableau would remain with him, acidly engraved on his memory for the rest of his life - Samuelson with his back to him, shoulders hunched defensively, surprising for the instigator of the debacle. Diana, her position next to the bed revealing her loyalties, one hand tentatively outstretched. Peter took in those two peripherally; his attention was centered on Neal, who was sitting bolt upright in the bed, eyes wide and shockingly vulnerable, pale, with his mouth drawn into a taut line. His gaze was fixed blindly on a vista only he could see, but the terror it seemed to inspire was revealed clearly.

Peter knew instantly that Neal's still chronologically challenged mind was lost in a pivotal moment of his past. The young man was the only one not to acknowledge Peter's entrance. Peter shouldered the detective aside with a growled, "You've done enough damage. Get out." As he sat on the bed, Neal finally reacted to his presence, lifting his head. A desperate appeal on his face, he opened his mouth, but Peter, fearing the young man would utter something incriminating about guns and Fowler, cut him off with an almost imperceptible headshake and a quelling glance. Neal had been on the receiving end of both often enough to recognise the message and stay quiet.

"I know you didn't do it, but it's the NYPD." Peter gave a 'what can you do' shrug. "My Great-Aunt Agnes could do better, and she's 92 and has a glass eye." After a moment he added judiciously, "and she died last year."

He surprised a snort of laughter form Neal and one of indignation from Samuelson. It might not have been the most diplomatic move, but it removed the lost look from Neal's face. With a quick pat to his partner's blanket-covered knee and a nod of encouragement, Peter stood up, placing himself squarely between Neal and his accuser.

Samuelson stolidly produced a pair of handcuffs. "I need to..." he waved them in Neal's direction."

"You're not serious." Peter considered appropriating the restraints and wrapping them around the detective's neck.

"You know the regulations - 'Hospitalized prisoners shall remained handcuffed or otherwise restrained for the safety of everyone involved and to prevent escape.'"

Peter was distracted from his contemplation of unorthodox applications of restraints by a soft touch on his arm. Glancing down, he met Neal's gaze and instantly read his plan. He stepped aside and waved Samuelson through with only slightly sardonic courtesy. The cuffs clicked around Neal's wrist and the bed frame. "You said you'd read Neal's file, right?" the agent asked blandly.

Samuelson turned to face him. "I'm not sure how much of it to believe," he pronounced.

As he spoke, Peter extended a hand, and Neal placed the handcuffs in it. Peter held them up. "These are yours, I think," he interrupted the cop's flow of skepticism.

The detective took them with an automatic and uncomprehending word of thanks, then spun back to Neal as understanding sank in. "What?" Every line of Neal's body projected a casual innocence that Peter had always thought was more suspicious than his most shifty look.

Peter hastily took control of the situation. "If you've read his file, you know restraints are singularly unhelpful, so don't even bother."

Samuelson still looked irresolute, so Peter continued persuasively. "Regulations also say that hospitalized prisoners must be kept under constant observation to prevent escape at all times. Now, you have an FBI unit performing that function for you, saving your department time and money. Let us do that part of your job."

"His file also says he runs," Samuelson observed skeptically.

"You have my guarantee that he won't."

Samuelson's scowl indicated that wasn't worth much to him, so Peter raised the stakes. "I'll take full responsibility for him. If he runs, it's my badge on the line, not yours."

"I'll hold you to that." The detective shook his head in capitulation. "Fine. He's your headache, not mine. I'll let you know the details of the arraignment."

Peter inclined his head to Diana, asking her silently to escort the detective out, leaving the FBI agent alone with his partner. Neal's eyes were fixed intently on his hands, which played idly with a crease in the sheets. Obeying the unspoken request for space, Peter eschewed the bed in exchange for the chair, sitting forward, forehead resting on steepled fingers as he allowed the quiet to sink over them. He needed to find the right words before he perforated the silent little cone they'd created, and Peter wasn't always good with words. He felt rather than saw the moment when Neal's intense focus switched to him, as if his skin was attuned to the weight of that blue gaze, and the gravity of that regard dragged Peter's own gaze up to meet it.

Neal's emotions had always run strongly, usually like a subterranean river of magma, deep and concealed, fooling most people with a superficial appearance of easy confidence and cool control. However, there were those times when they broke loose, erupting in a fiery pyrotechnic display that scattered burning debris around all bystanders. Since waking from the coma, his emotions were always close to the surface, exhaustion and stress exacerbating the situation, his composure crumbling away like old dust.

Now, between the stark colors of fear, anger and bewilderment, were interwoven more subtle swirls of hurt, betrayal and distress, bleeds from the innermost soul that he would never normally show. "W-why?" was all he asked, but Peter heard the unspoken, 'Why didn't you tell me?'

Peter could have cravenly hidden behind the excuse of 'doctor's orders,' but in his mind that would have compounded his failure. They both knew that Peter would not be bound by anyone else's decisions when it came to responsibility for Neal. "Because you didn't ask," he answered, the corner of his mouth twisting wryly.

Neal leveled his best 'go to hell and take your toothbrush' glare. "Th-that's n-not f-f-f..." His voice was rough and edgy and he struggled as frustration made his speech even more inaccessible. His hands clenched into fists, and it was clear he was spoiling for a fight. Peter was tempted to clear the air by giving it to him, but he also sensed Neal's need for reassurance.

For once, Peter interrupted him. "That wasn't meant as facetiously as it sounded. You never asked me any questions; you never asked how you were hurt or if it had been part of a case. I took that to mean that you weren't ready for answers." He shrugged. "I hoped to make it all go away before the questions were asked."

"D-did I sh-shoot him?" Neal asked in a small voice.

"No, I don't believe so," Peter answered candidly. "You were knocked out and it was a nasty blow. Even after you regained consciousness you didn't remember how it happened, but you told me then that you didn't shoot him."

"I r-remember...gun and F-Fowler."

An icy chill ghosted down Peter's back before he realised the probable source of the confusion. "The gun - was it an automatic?"

Neal slowly shook his head. "I don't suppose you remember how you entered the room?" Peter asked, a playful tone entering his voice.

Neal thought for a moment then his hand gestured a wide swing. "Th-through the..the glass-f-framed th-thing."

Peter huffed out a breath of relief. "That was over a year ago. You didn't kill him - scared him pretty good, but you surrendered the gun to me without hurting him. Do you remember?"

Neal bowed his head in a slow nod, relief trickling in slowly as the memory coalesced.

"Do me a favor?" Peter nudged him. "Don't bring that up again. It never exactly made it into the records and it would certainly cause more problems now."

With a mental shrug, Peter decided this was as good a time as any to have this conversation. Neal needed to know what happened and something might jog his memory. "I'm convinced there was someone else there. You were just a convenient patsy. I do have to ask you one question - do you have a gun or easy access to one?"

He really did know the answer to that, but he needed to cover his bases and he watched Neal carefully for signs of deceit. Neal cast him a reproachful look. "D-don't d-do guns."

"Well, considering your history with Fowler, you can't blame me for asking." It was a low blow, but also justified.

Neal leaned forward, gazing at Peter earnestly and forcing out the words he had to say. "W-wwasn't mine. I w-was angry, th-thought Fowler had killed Kate. S-saw the gun. You know I hate guns and n-never committed a crime with a gun. B-but it wasn't Fowler, it was Adler, he t-told me." It was the longest speech Neal had managed, and it took a while for him to choke it all out, but Peter didn't try to cut him off, even though he already knew the story. If Neal needed to say it, he was prepared to listen.

"The main point is that you didn't bring the gun and it wasn't Fowler's. If he had an unregistered weapon, he'd make sure you didn't get hold of it. I'm sure there was someone else in that room. Can you figure out the last thing you remember? Why you went over to Fowler's?" He kept his tone calm and neutral in an attempt to make it more of a discussion and less like an interrogation.

"I d-don't..." Neal trailed off. His face was drawn so tight that Peter suspected he'd have a major headache that night.

"It's okay, let's try to sneak up on it. Do you remember the Thursday, when I left for a long weekend to go to my parents'?"

Neal nodded, though not with complete assurance. Peter continued, "You went into the office on Friday to work with Diana and Jones."

"T-Turner case," Neal contributed, this time with confidence.

"That's right." Peter offered him a genuine smile. He'd seen the readout from Neal's anklet, which gave him an accurate idea of Neal's movements during this time, so he could prompt when needed. He successfully nudged Neal through his activities on Friday and Saturday, but they drew a complete blank from Sunday morning onwards. The exercise had provided nothing of use to the investigation, but Peter hoped that it had given useful stimulus to Neal's mind, stretching his damaged mnemonic muscles in a way that might prove beneficial later.

The doctors doubted he'd ever remember the circumstances surrounding his injury since it appeared to have always been a yawning hole in his memory, but when Peter had talked to him at the tramway, Neal had indicated that he remembered why he'd met with Fowler; that knowledge might be retrievable and, if so, it would be invaluable.

As if following Peter's line of thought, Neal asked, "W-why Fowler?"

"That's the thousand dollar question." Peter tapped the tips of fingers consideringly on the bedframe. "The only thing we know for sure is that Fowler contacted you and I can only think of two possible reasons for that. Either he was attempting to blackmail you or he needed you for your unique skill set, or possibly both - he was attempting to blackmail you to use your unique skill set."

"M-motive," Neal stated bleakly.

"Yeah, that's what Samuelson thinks."

Neal lay back, throwing an arm over his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders and spine beneath the thin pajamas revealed that the attitude of sleep was feigned. His chest rose and fell erratically as he sought for control of his emotions. Peter allowed him the subterfuge, his body aching as if regret and fear were living things pushing into the spaces of his joints. Maybe he'd already have solved the case if he'd spent less time at the hospital, but that had been unacceptable in the face of Neal's needs. It was so unfair that Neal had to go through this a second time. At least at the Roosevelt Island tram, Neal had some control over the situation, choices he could make. Now he was stripped of his defenses and essential skills, leaving only the essence of who he was behind, facing his worst nightmare without shield or weaponry to combat it.

It didn't require much empathy to imagine the tenor of Neal's feelings. Peter could practically see his train of thought rattling round on an endless track, but he said nothing, allowing Neal to sort his way through the mass of new and unwelcome information. Eventually the CI stirred, lowering his arm to reveal a commendable imitation of a blank face, although Peter could feel anxiety coming off him in waves. "F-for a w-warrant, m-must be m-more. What do th-they have?"

Peter had always been a straight-shooting, rip-the-bandaid-off-with-one-tug kind of guy. "Basically the whole package - means, motive and opportunity, or so they believe. Your fingerprints were on the gun, you were right there - Neal Caffrey with the smoking gun in Fowler's apartment." The look of horror Neal gave him made Peter regret the slight tone of levity he'd tried to inject.

Neal pushed himself upright, the fingers that remained on the bed trembling minutely against his thighs. "Peter..." he began with tones of desperation in his voice, which reminded Peter how overwhelming it must be to have no frame of reference to the events - especially to a man who prided himself on never leaving evidence.

Peter reached across the bed and gripped Neal's forearm. "I know things seem bleak right now, but it really isn't as bad as it sounds. I've seen the autopsy results and there's no way Fowler hit you after being shot. He died instantly. A halfway-decent lawyer would get you off on self-defense, manslaughter at the worst." Neal didn't seem too reassured at the prospect. He drew his knees up against his chest and wrapped his arms around them, as if warding off the chill of prison.

This was the second time Peter had seen Neal's distress and dread at the possibility of another prison stay and it caused nausea to curl in his gut and bile to coat the back of his throat, but he refused to acknowledge the reaction or contemplate its meaning. However, it renewed his determination to ensure that Neal never went back inside again.

"Neal," he began a little awkwardly. "Look, it was hard enough to say this the first time." Turbulent blue eyes met his. "I know you don't remember the conversation but we've been through this before and I made you a promise." A spark of intrigue lit the dark gaze. "You have my word that you won't be the one going down for this. Whatever it takes, I will not allow you to go to jail for something you didn't do."

The words twisted tightly round each other, knotting into a firm mesh of pledge and trust. Air flooded into Neal's lungs as if sucked there by the relief that surged into his system, but being the ultimate conman, he couldn't help but verify the details. "Wh-whatever it t-takes?"

Peter's mouth twitched with a confusing mixture of frustration and amusement. Give Neal an inch and he'd end up in freaking Nova Scotia. Of course Neal couldn't take a perfectly good declaration on its own merits, but would demand its conditions. It was a request for an act of reciprocal trust. This could be used against Peter in a devastating way, so he was handing over a measure of control. Maintaining forceful eye contact, he stated in the manner of a man taking an oath, "I will clear you of these charges and bring whoever was responsible to justice. If I am unable to do so, I will either take a coffee break at an appropriate moment, allowing you to slip out of the hospital or, if you are not in a condition to take advantage of that, I will take you to whatever airport, train station or border you so wish."

In the middle of this proclamation, Neal cast a frantic look at the closed door and attempted to stop Peter from continuing. Now, he sat opening and closing his mouth like an abruptly stranded goldfish. "You c-can't," he managed eventually. "You t-told that d-d-d cop th-that it was your j-job if I r-ran."

Peter regarded him intently. "When Kramer threatened you, I gave you the signal to run. Is it so hard to believe that I would go one step further and actually help you escape?"

Neal careened between disbelief and an odd sense of insecurity, sitting utterly still as he tried to reconcile this offer with the agent he knew. It seemed to say too much, to threaten the boundaries between them. His mind appeared to wobble and pitch, too uncertain on its axis to process the thought properly. The events of the last few hours had forced him to recognise the hollowness in his brain. He tried to force the memories to return, but confusion alone seeped in, leaving him with the ice-damp chill of anxiety and fear. Peter was offering him something extraordinary, and he didn't know if it was fear for himself or for his friend that made him want to decline. Finally, without stuttering he said, "FBI," fitting a lot of meaning into two consonants and a vowel.

Peter didn't seem displeased by his response. "Do you remember me telling you once - 'Do the right thing'? Well, sometimes doing the right thing and doing my job are not...compatible nowadays."

The world righted itself. Peter might have evolved, but he hadn't changed. He was still an unstoppable force, doing what was necessary and right, whatever the circumstances, and Neal found himself endlessly grateful for that.

There was a familiar scrutiny in Peter's gaze. "However, this is not to be regarded as a carte blanche. This particular 'get out of jail free' card only applies to crimes you've already confessed to me and those of which you are innocent. If you do break the law for selfish purposes - and that covers profit or thrill - this deal is null and void."

Neal wrinkled his nose in his best 'rats, foiled again' expression and ducked his head before meeting Peter's gaze again. His thanks remained unvoiced but were there for Peter to read in his countenance. While he appreciated Peter's willingness to sacrifice his career, Neal had no intention of letting that happen. If necessary, he needed to come up with a plan that would achieve the same end without costing Peter so dearly.

Peter was happy to see that the tension had bled out of Neal's frame. He wasn't quite as thrilled to see the familiar look of calculation, but at the same time it was so characteristically Neal that it was also welcome. "The bottom line is that you just need to concentrate on getting better. Don't waste your energy worrying about this."

Neal threw him an exasperated look. "Yes, c-cos it w-works so w-well for...for..." He flapped stubby wings and stuck his head in the sand, a short pantomime that brought a broad grin to Peter's face. Neal might have temporarily lost his eloquence with words, but this time had enabled him to showcase a previously unknown facility for performance theatre.

"I don't think anyone would ever accuse you of being an ostrich, Neal. I'm just looking for some prioritization in the self-preservation department for once."

A knock on the door interrupted Neal's potential retort. At Peter's invitation, Diana entered, bearing a cup with the Starbuck's logo on it, a redundant feature since Peter's nose had already detected its delectable aroma. "Hey, Boss, I'm heading out, but I thought you'd like some coffee before I go."

Peter inhaled eagerly, rising up to accept the gift as if it were liquid gold. "Diana, you're a wonder. Remind me to give you full marks for initiative on your next progress report."

"And for team building," she prompted.

"Absolutely. In fact why don't you just write it and sign it for me and save me the trouble."

Seeing Neal's disgruntled face, Diana gave him a little wave. "Sorry, Caffrey, you haven't graduated to the hard stuff yet."

"And you don't sign her progress reports," Peter clarified.

"Apparently, n-neither do you," Neal pointed out.

"Okay, you don't fake her progress reports - and no, that's not a suggestion or approval."

"While you explain that one to him in detail, I'll wish you both goodnight." Diana whisked out, leaving Neal eyeing the cup with a longing that suggested he was contemplating a snatch and grab.

"Hands up and back away from the coffee," Peter warned.

"O-one s-sip," Neal held up one finger in illustration.

"Sorry." Peter savoured the first sip. "It's not on your approved list yet. The last thing we need is you climbing the walls when you're supposed to be resting in bed. However, if you're thirsty, I can get you something to drink - water, juice, hemlock?"

"Coffee is a st-st-stimulant. M-might help." Neal tapped his head persuasively.

"Excellent argument." Peter held out a moment longer before caving. "Fine, but just one sip."

Neal made grabby motions with his hands, but kept his options open by maintaining plaintive eyes until his partner carefully deposited the cup into his waiting fingers. "One sip," he emphasized. "No gulps, no guzzling, and absolutely no slurping."

"Th-thank you, M-mr. Th-thesaurus." Neal took a first swallow, closing his eyes blissfully, then after a quick glance under his lashes at Peter, two more.

"Okay, okay." Peter rescued his cup. "Clearly counting is a skill you still need to work on." He sat back to enjoy what was left. "Let me know if that's shaken anything loose. I could really use Mozzie's help and his underground contacts in investigating Agroking."

Neal still couldn't remember the emergency number Mozzie had left him, but there were alternative channels he could use. It would take longer, but Mozzie would eventually get the message. He grabbed the pad of paper and a pencil from the bedside table. His fine motor skills with his right hand lacked his normal control, but his writing was still legible. He scribbled for a minute, then tore the sheet off and handed it to Peter. There was a telephone number, the address of the hospital and a brief message - 'Falcon has a broken wing.'

"Falcon, huh?" Peter commented with a raised eyebrow in Neal's direction.

Neal shrugged. "M-Mozzie and codewords."

That might be true, but Peter knew that even Mozzie's whimsy tended to be at least apropos and more often than not devastatingly perceptive. A falcon was certainly appropriate for Neal. Like the eponymous bird, he was graceful and fast, soaring high and swooping low, strong and streamlined, capable of surviving in many different habitats. Yet, even as that meaning registered, the deeper connotations struck him. Mozzie was never one for the most obvious interpretation. For each level of meaning you could see, there were probably half-a-dozen floating like sharp ripping icebergs beneath and Peter felt as if he'd jammed his hull right onto a point.

He reached out and, through the covers, squeezed Neal's ankle right where the tracking anklet usually sat. "Jesses, I get it." It shouldn't surprise him that he was cast in the role of captor, the defiler of freedom, but it still hurt. Under his tutelage, Neal was being trained to hunt other criminals. Mozzie could really pack a punch with just one word.

Seeing his mentor's expression, Neal was tempted to explain that it was a code that had been set up right after his release from jail. Instead, he offered a different piece of information. "D-did you know th-that falcons in c-captivity live t-twice as l-long as th-those in the wild?"

When Peter had originally been chasing the young man, he'd been afraid Neal's career would end at the end of a security guard's gun or at the hands of more ruthless confederates, so that was comforting to hear. "B-besides," Neal continued, "you s-set m-me free and..." He trailed off, so Peter would never know if he was going to finish with, 'and I came back'. That was probably a good idea because there was enough subtext in those words to write a novel the size of War and Peace.

Peter decided to redirect the conversation to an area not strewn with mines. "So what was Mozzie's code name?"

"C-cal-cal-cam." Neal hit the covers in frustration as the word remained elusive. "Ch-changes color and its tongue..." He used his fingers to demonstrate a rapidly extruding tongue and coiled prehensile tail and added googly eyes for extra illustration. Peter was in no doubt as to the animal portrayed, and smiled in appreciation, but made no effort to interrupt the anamnesis process. He was rewarded by Neal's triumphant call of "Ch-chameleon."

"Chameleon? Yeah, I can see that. He's small and sneaky, fades into the background. Seems harmless but takes prey unaware."

Neal cast him an amused glance that said 'you're overthinking this.'

"Oh, don't give me that look. I'm sure there's layers here that I'm missing, but I'm not up on my Discovery Channel animal specials." Another thought struck him. "So, in this wacky world of totem animals, what was I?"

He'd always had a highly calibrated honesty sensor where Neal was concerned, but right now he didn't need it. The double blink and sudden widening of the eyes told their own story before Neal tapped his head ruefully. "M-memory not working so well, r-remember?"

"Oh, don't try that, Neal. Come on, what was it? A hound dog, a donkey?"

Neal looked as if he was getting as much entertainment from Peter's guesses as he was from his own secret knowledge. It was gratifying to see the young man look so gleeful, especially considering the events of the afternoon, so Peter played up to it. "I'm probably giving myself too much credit, aren't I? After all, this is Mozzie, so I probably don't rank even as mammalian. I'm some sort of crawling arthropod or bottom feeder - a vulture, a sea cucumber, a worm!"

At each guess, Neal shook his head, biting his lip to avoid laughing out loud, little tears forming in the corner of his eyes. "Fine, I give up." Peter pretended to be disgruntled. "Come on, tell me." Neal shook his head frantically, shoulders shaking with laughter. "We're not leaving it like this. I can see you're dying to tell me."

Neal was now laughing so hard he could hardly get the word out. "Sh-Sh-Shamu."

Shamu? Peter was startled into silence. Clearly, Neal wouldn't be coherent enough to explain for a while. In many ways, it was better than he expected - killer whales were graceful predators. However, Mozzie hadn't chosen killer whales, he'd chosen a specific cetacean which carried very different connotations.

"T-trained to j-jump th-through hoops," Neal finally contributed.

"Domesticated, tame," Peter added with disgust.

"B-but dangerous and you f-forget th-that at your p-peril."

"Big teeth, little pool, I get it." There was a backhanded compliment hidden in there somewhere, but Peter was too tired to frisk through layers of meaning to find it. "I think I'm taking Mozzie off my Christmas list," he decided. That set Neal off again, but Peter delighted in the almost forgotten sound of his laughter.

They spent a pleasant hour devising code names for the rest of their team, though it sometimes devolved into charades as Neal struggled with his anomia. They bickered happily over the anthropomorphized qualities of a variety of animals until Neal started yawning around midnight. By this time, Peter's socked feet were on the bed, and he nudged Neal with a toe. "Get some sleep."

"It's n-not even 12:30, I'm good." The effect of the speech was spoiled by another jawbreaking yawn. "Go home, P-Peter. S-see your w-wife."

"I'm not leaving until Jones arrives at 2 am, but you should know that there's a good chance I'll be late tomorrow, although someone will be here."

A blue eye cracked open. "Y-you've got s-something?"

Peter hesitated, not wanting to offer false hope. "We've got a start, but I can't promise that it will significantly help your case. I can prove that Agroking is engaged in money laundering. Their figures just don't add up. I followed the serial numbers of the heavy machinery they're exporting to Mexico and verified the bills of sale, and the income they're declaring just doesn't match. It's enough to make it an official case, and we'll have a search warrant by morning, although we'll just carry out surveillance for a while. Proving that there's something fishy going on in the company introduces another possible motive in Fowler's murder, but it doesn't get you off the hook...yet."

"Y-you'll figure it out," Neal's hand waved a vague assurance in the air. He should probably be a bit more worried considering he was under arrest, but he was tired and Peter had his back and for now, that was enough. He had seen immense progress in his condition, and the general situation was bound to mirror that improvement.

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Author's note: Look Ma, no cliffhanger! Relax for a moment because real action will resume - with the addition of Mozzie - next chapter!

Thanks as always to my wonderful beta and to the lovely people who take the time to comment. I love hearing from you!


	8. Chapter 8

Senseless Ch 8

Absence might make the heart grow fonder, but it didn't improve the smell of the van. Nevertheless, it felt good to be doing something actively constructive towards clearing Neal. Peter didn't begrudge a minute spent at the hospital, but after the emotional turmoil of the last two weeks, the structured boredom of surveillance was almost a relief.

Hughes hadn't said a word as he signed off on the formation of the case, but his expression painted an eloquent picture - Neal would probably have described it as FBI Baroque - a complicated dissonance of amused disapproval and shrewd consent with a background of conviction and a wisp of faith. There were no more warnings of potential damage to Peter's career if he linked his fortunes to Neal. Clearly that ship had already sailed, dipped below the horizon, and was deep in the 'here be dragons' territory. He returned his boss's gaze with a loaded one of his own, which he hoped conveyed respectful gratitude and complete confidence in the path he'd chosen.

It was a relief to have official backing for the investigation, even if it was still peripheral to the direction he wanted to take. He had initiated procedures for a wiretap, and his pocket held a search warrant, but despite the burning urgency inside him, Peter was too canny to tip his hand early by using it before he was sure of its efficacy. So, for now, Peter and his diminished team were in the malodorous, but familiar, van getting a feel for the personnel and operations of Agroking. The main offices and operating plant were located in the heart of the industrial area near the Brooklyn Docks, and the confines of the van provided an inconspicuous position to photograph the comings and goings of staff and visitors. It was tedious work and, so far, unrelieved by anything that could be regarded as suspicious.

While Peter didn't expect a neatly labeled package of white powder to conveniently drop out of a departing truck to land with an incriminating thud in front of the van to the theme tune of Miami Vice, he was hoping to see the cohort of a mobster or drug lord stroll through the gates. It would help if they could identify whose money was being laundered and for what crime. So far, parking violations and speeding tickets comprised the vast majority of identifiable legal proceedings, with a faint sprinkling of minor drug charges to offer a little variety.

By the second day, the novelty had certainly worn off. Peter missed Neal's irreverent comments. Dealing with his partner's attempts to relieve his boredom always proved diverting. A lightly worded complaint to Neal the night before had elicited no sympathy as the CI had pointed out acerbically, if haltingly, that sitting in the van offered more by way of entertainment than lying in a hospital bed. A bored Neal was an explosive ingredient in a recipe for disaster, so Peter left him a copy of all the pertinent paperwork concerning Agroking in the hopes of staving off a catastrophe.

Conditions for surveillance were complicated by a steady fall of rain that fell with an inexorable beat on the roof of the van and caused faces outside to be concealed below umbrellas and hoods. Jones and Diana ran the number plates of all vehicular visitors, but even legitimate business appeared depressed by the wet conditions.

Peter picked up his cup of coffee, then regarded it mournfully as its empty condition registered. He lobbed it into the trash and placed his hands behind his head, arching his back in a stretch until his spine popped. His body was aching from the relentless pace he was pushing himself to maintain. Listlessly, he thumbed through the latest manifest of Agroking's exports.

"Who knows anything about agricultural machinery?" he asked.

A deliberate silence fell over the van, punctuated only by the drumming of the rain.

"City boy here." Jones gestured to himself. "However, I'll bet drugs are involved somewhere."

"As a diplomat's daughter, I have to point out that our third largest trading partner does produce more than drugs." Diana wagged a finger at her colleague.

"That's true." Peter supported her thesis. "Take a look at your new flat screen TV - you know, the one without the bullet hole through it - it's probably from Mexico. If it weren't for Fowler's death, I'd be tempted to believe this was simply some kind of commercial fraud, but something impelled him to call in Neal, and something was worth killing for."

Further speculation was interrupted by a buzz from Peter's phone indicating the arrival of a text message. He stretched out a long leg to make access to his pocket easier and pulled out his phone. He squinted at the letters on the screen which read, "Must discuss Falcon. Same place. Half hour. Confirm."

Peter quickly worked out the quickest trajectory to the park and found it should take almost exactly thirty minutes, which immediately gave him the paranoid suspicion that Mozzie was tracing his location. He wouldn't put it past the Machiavellian little conman to know exactly what was in his coffee cup that morning, too. "I have to go," he announced as his fingers pushed, 'I'll be there' into the keys.

His team looked at him in concern. "Is Neal all right?" Diana asked immediately.

"Yes, this is actually good news...potentially," he amended.

There wasn't much competition for taxis once he got back to a main street, and he took an indirect route to the park, stopping to pick up his own car. He had his choice of benches since New Yorkers apparently weren't big fans of admiring the scenery in torrential downpours. Also, he discovered that there was some utilitarian wisdom in Neal's choice of headgear over and above the fashion statement it was. Peter huddled deeper into his coat, tucking the collar up and resigning himself to the wet rat look.

He didn't have long to wait before scurrying footsteps approached. At first, Peter was relieved that he didn't have to jump through any more paranoid, voice-scrambling, mockingbird-related hoops, but then he realised that such unconstrained behaviour indicated true agitation on the part of the little criminal mastermind.

Peter scowled when he noticed that the shorter man was appropriately accoutered for the weather with a poncho and an odd-looking umbrella that probably doubled as a listening device. "We're not doing this here," he growled, wiping a stream of water from his eyes. "I'm already soaked. There's a cafe round the corner where we can do this in relative comfort."

In hindsight, he could see that, in Mozzie's heightened state of paranoia, this wasn't the best of suggestions. The little man shuffled his feet like a small, uncertain thoroughbred balking at the gates of the Derby, ready to run, and reluctant to be herded into a small space.

"No, no, no, no, no." He pointed an accusing finger. "You don't get to choose the meeting place. I choose the meeting place." He looked around wildly as if expecting hordes of flatfooted, donut-chomping G-men to be forming a posse circle around them.

Peter half-raised his arms in mock surrender, but quickly dropped them as water trickled down from his wrists. "Just relax, I'm not trying to usurp your prerogatives. However, if you want to avoid suspicion, I suggest we find a place where normal people might go on a day like this. I feel like an extra in Tinker Tailor, Soldier Spy."

"Try A Question of Honor."

It took Peter a moment to decipher the snide comment. "Benedict Arnold? You're calling me a Benedict Arnold?"

"If the Revolutionary War boot fits..."

"First I'm Shamu, then I'm Benedict Arnold." Peter knew that, for Mozzie, most lawmen fell into the subhuman, marrow-sucking monster category, but he had hoped that experience had elevated him to at least a Neanderthal level.

He stood up, cascading water, and Mozzie skittered away from him in horror. "You arrested Neal and tortured him for information!"

"I what?" Peter fell back a few steps himself, truly appalled by the accusation. He took a deep breath, reining back his frustration as he walked in a tight circle before approaching Mozzie again. "Do you know where we are?"

Mozzie's arms were folded tightly in a defensive posture, and he tilted his chin defiantly. "'Government, even in its best state, is but a necessary evil; in its worst state, an intolerable one.'"

"I'll take that as a yes. This is the Thomas Paine Park, so why don't we use our 'common sense' and get out of the rain. I'm heading for the cafe. If you want to go somewhere else, I will follow you."

Mozzie glared, but as Peter started to move away, the little man scuttled around in front of him and led the way to a vacant, covered bus stop. Peter rolled his eyes as images of fragrant cups of coffee dissolved. "I was thinking of somewhere a little more...you know what, forget it." He plonked himself down on the discoloured plastic seat. "This is just fine. Have you been to see Neal?" He knew how much the little man hated hospitals, but still expected an affirmative answer, since Mozzie's loyalty generally trumped his phobias.

Mozzie refused to sit and used the rare occasion of superior height to loom. "You think I didn't see the trap? Your minions just weren't quite alert enough to spring it."

Peter took a deep breath of exaggerated patience. "There was no trap. My people are there to protect Neal, and your name is on the list of allowed visitors."

"Are you telling me that Neal is not under arrest?"

It wasn't the question Peter wanted to tackle first, but evasion would create more problems, so he manned up. "Yes, Neal is under arrest." He nobly ignored Mozzie's interjection of 'hah!'. "But, I didn't arrest him, and I did everything I could to prevent it from happening."

"You clearly didn't prevent him from getting hurt. I always knew that your Feeble Bunch of Idiots was going to get him killed."

The words dislodged a splinter of guilt buried deep inside Peter, drawing blood, and he couldn't prevent the flinch that seemed to justify Mozzie's accusation. There was more worry than triumph in the smaller man's expression, but the anger that surged inside Peter impelled him to his feet, crowding Mozzie against the plastic wall containing a toothpaste advertisement with glittering teeth which threatened to eat the conman alive.

A middle-aged tourist couple approached the shelter at a run and, taking his cue from the commercial, Peter smiled widely at them. Despite his effort at normality, they suddenly decided this wasn't the bus stop they were looking for and continued down the street. Peter turned his smile on Mozzie who looked even less reassured. The smaller man waved a defensive finger.

"That's not a smile, it's just a bunch of teeth playing with my mind."

"Five minutes." Peter held up an illustrative number of fingers. "Just sit down and listen to me without speaking for five minutes." Seeing the mutinous, if still jittery expression on Mozzie's face, he ground out an exasperated, "Please."

Keeping his back ramrod straight, and making it clear his participation in this tête-à-tête was purely voluntary, Mozzie lowered himself down. In the hopes of making him more receptive to the story and engaging that brilliant mind, Peter started with a general exculpation of the Bureau.

"This had nothing to do with the FBI." There was a murmur of 'Faceless Bureaucratic Ideologues.' It appeared that Mozzie's latest hobby was to fashion creative insults for the FBI acronym. That wouldn't get annoying at all. Luckily Peter had some experience of dealing with people who were annoying for a living, and he continued doggedly. "Neal wasn't on a case. In fact, his association with Fowler predates his work with me."

"Fowler? What...?"

"Ah!" Peter held out a quelling hand and fell silent until Mozzie subsided, after a glare and a retaliatory, "Fatuous Boneheaded Imperialist."

Peter summarized the events of the last couple of weeks as succinctly as possible, and the conman only interrupted to seek clarification on key points. When the narrative was finished, Mozzie's first concern was for Neal's health and prognosis, but once largely reassured on that crucial issue, he focused with customary acumen on the crux of their meeting. "What is it you want me to do?"

A car drove through the gathering puddle near the sidewalk, the spray falling just short of their position. Peter shivered, the damp in his clothes soaking through to his skin, but even as he stared out at the splatters of raindrops, his mind was far away from his physical discomfort as he took a moment to consider exactly the role he needed Mozzie to play.

Eventually, he huffed a tired laugh. "Mozzie, we both know you have access to contacts and information that I don't."

Mozzie preened, accepting the observation as a compliment. "I might - allegedly - have developed a network of sources on a number of edifying topics."

Peter regarded the small man guardedly. It was an uneasy alliance that lay between them, coming as they did from the opposite ends of the authoritarian spectrum - Mozzie espousing an anarchical lack of government and the FBI agent representing everything he feared and mistrusted about authority. Neal might have a rather unorthodox outlook on the importance of property rights, but he had a strong concept of justice and shared Peter's protectiveness of those in need. Although Mozzie seemed mostly harmless, Peter didn't trust him the way he did Neal. He was certainly not immoral, but maybe amoral. He had masterminded the theft of the Nazi treasure from under the noses of both FBI and Adler, and Peter had his suspicions about the contract put out on Keller.

The one thing he never doubted, though, was the little man's loyalty to Neal, even if he didn't always appreciate how that support was demonstrated. Purloined Nazi treasure really wasn't a socially appropriate friendship gift. However, Mozzie could be counted on to render Neal whatever aid was needed.

"Ideally," Peter began carefully, "I'd like to know who wanted Fowler dead and why, but for now I'll take anything on Agroking and their illegal activities."

"How's that going to help Neal?" Mozzie asked suspiciously. "I refuse to narc on creative business practices purely to inflate your resume."

Peter met his mistrustful gaze steadily. "It might not. The only guarantee I can offer is that I'm doing everything I can to clear him."

"And if you fail?"

"If this goes to court, I don't believe they'll get a conviction for murder, but if he is convicted for as much as a firearms offense, it invalidates the terms of his release and he'll end up back in prison."

The point of the umbrella dug savagely into the concrete. "So then you just throw him to the wolves."

Peter refused to rise to the bait. He had no intention of discussing the promise he'd made to Neal with anyone else. "I don't intend to let the situation deteriorate that far, and I would appreciate any help you can offer in pursuit of that goal."

More prospective bus riders were approaching, and Mozzie jumped up and scuttled out onto the sidewalk, his umbrella swinging up to foil the rain and any prospective surveillance cameras. "I'll call you," he hissed as he passed the agent.

Peter's long legs had no difficulty catching up with him. "Wait! I know Neal would love to see you. Can I give you a ride to the hospital?"

From the wide-eyed look of horror Mozzie cast him, he must have added the words 'in my cleverly disguised prison van' instead of 'in my car'. "I'll make my own way, Suit."

"You're welcome," Peter called after him, watching with some amusement the purposeful, yet somehow evasive, progress down the street until the conman disappeared into the doorway of a building. Peter was tempted to drive over to the hospital and update Neal on his 'Mozzie sighting' but investigative pressures won out, and he decided to call instead.

He heard nothing more from Mozzie that day, but found Neal in a buoyant mood when he arrived at the hospital that evening. It wasn't until the following morning, while he was once again on stakeout, that he received a call from a familiar number with the news he was hoping for.

"Agroking warehouse 12 on Pier 16." Mozzie hadn't actually disguised his voice, but it sounded hushed and secretive. "You'll find what you're looking for, but don't waste any time because it's due to ship out on the Monongahela tomorrow." There was a pause, and Peter expected to hear, 'This tape will self-destruct in five seconds.' He wasn't too far off the mark, as Mozzie added, "This is the last time you'll be able to contact me on this number," and hung up.

Peter spun around in his seat, and every agent there recognised the smile on their boss's face - the glint of fierce intelligence and triumph that said he had not just scented their prey, but treed it as well. He started barking out orders. "Jones, call Legal. Make sure the search warrant applies to the warehouse on the docks. If not, get a new one that does. Diana, call SWAT and tell them to suit up. We now have a target. Then get maps of the docks. I want to know every point of ingress and egress. I'm going to contact the Coast Guard and have them support us from the water."

Peter hadn't lost a man in an operation yet. The safety of his people was always paramount in his mind, and his planning was invariably meticulous and thorough. The situation they were facing now was, by its nature, unpredictable. Variables such as the exact layout inside the warehouse, the number of people there, the armaments they held and their willingness to fight were unforeseeable. While accepting that reality, he prepared for every element that could be anticipated. The docks were too large an area to form an effective perimeter, but he stationed people in a vehicle at every exit. All the members of his team had familiarized themselves with the blueprints of the docks and were wearing the best defensive gear the Bureau could provide.

The three FBI cars were accompanied by SWAT's Ballistic Armored Tactical Transport and a Rapid Deployment Vehicle as they were waved through the main gates at the docks. Peter was a veteran of such operations, and he'd learned how to project absolute calm and confidence, but adrenaline thrummed inside, shortening his breath and prickling the fine hairs on his arms. He channeled this excess energy into practical activities - checking that his team was on task and surveying the territory they were entering.

Heavy drops of rain whipped the windows of his car, shrouding much of the scenery. He could barely make out the water on his right as it appeared periodically between buildings or the set of rails that ran parallel to it, punctuated at intervals by immense cranes that towered above the landscape. Mostly they were passing large, identical warehouses, although one area contained only rusty skeletons of former buildings, stark reminders of the destructive power of fire. Huge trucks littered the area like abandoned giant toys, some denuded of their cargo containers, while in other areas, stacks of colorful containers were haphazardly piled like large rectangular blocks.

They turned right down Pier 16, dwarfed between a vast cargo ship on one side and an equally gigantic warehouse on the other. There were several longshoremen loading the boat, but their heads were down, trying to limit exposure to the full force of the weather, and they paid no attention to the arriving armada of vehicles. Peter would have preferred more visible signs of perturbation - guilty hands waving abjectly in surrender would be best - but it wasn't until they disembarked from the cars and were approaching the building, guns drawn, that they elicited a satisfactory reaction.

A young, burly man, dressed in filthy coveralls, started to exit the main door, stared at them in openmouthed alarm and disappeared back inside shouting loudly, if inaccurately, "Cops!" The element of surprise was clearly lost. Peter nodded to Ferris, Captain of the SWAT team. This part of the operation was under his command, and Peter kept his people back as the Captain deployed his team. The men spread out around the door, ready to burst through. Peter flattened himself against the far side of the wall.

"FBI. Come out of the building with your hands up." It was a standard warning, and one that was, in Peter's opinion, more conducive to the bad guys zeroing in on an auditory target than it was to encouraging them to file meekly out of the building. Sure enough, the command was met with rapid gunfire that perforated the door and was presumably intended to fill anyone outside with a disinclination to enter. The SWAT team looked neither surprised not intimidated, clearly accustomed to and trained for this response. With practiced movements, they broke down the door without exposing themselves to fire from inside and tossed in stun grenades. Taking advantage of the disarray that caused, they quickly entered, fanning out to seek cover behind natural barriers and to assess the situation further.

Oblivious to the rain that still fell, Peter crouched beside the entrance, knowing he'd be a liability inside, but taking a position to offer covering fire if needed. It was clear that the effectiveness of the flashbang had been diminished by the vast dimensions of the warehouse, and the plethora of crates and palettes piled inside provided effective shelter for the gunmen as well as the SWAT team. It was chaos inside, but only a minority of the workers seemed to have the ability or motivation to fight back. Those nearest the door were either lying unconscious or stumbling around blindly. However, in the vast recesses of the building, people were heading for alternate exits - windows and fire doors - until the warehouse looked like a leaky sieve with fleeing rodent issues.

With a quick gesture, Peter sent Diana and Jones after some suspects on one side of the pier. A faint splash indicated that some enterprising escape artist had plunged into the water where, hopefully, the Coast Guard would pick him up. Obviously, there must be an equal number of escapees choosing his side of the depot to decamp from, so Peter ran to the corner, peering round to survey the 900 feet of length. One man was sprinting up the pier, and two more dropped out of windows as he watched. Automatically, Peter took off in pursuit, one SWAT officer joining him.

He yelled out the customary order to stop with the accompanying suggestion that they submit meekly to arrest, but he might as well have sung them an aria. The Supreme Court decision of Tennessee versus Garner forbidding police office officers to use deadly force against unarmed fleeing suspects appeared to be standard reading material in the criminal fraternity, (Peter made a mental note to check with Neal if that were indeed the case) so the only appreciable difference it might have made was to increase their speed.

There was no actual evidence as yet that the men he was chasing were carrying weapons. They could be unimportant cogs in the larger criminal machine, but they might also prove to be pivotal to his investigation, so for now, he got his fitness workout of the day. Pounding a slippery pavement in a bullet-proof vest and long overcoat with rain lashing his face was much harder work than going for a jog with Satchmo at the end of a leash, and by the end of the pier, his breath was a harsh accompaniment to the wet slap of his feet and the faint echo of shots behind them.

The three fugitives split up as they left the pier, and Peter followed the one on the right on the theory that he was heading away from the main gate and was the least likely to be picked up by another FBI patrol. His quarry disappeared momentarily behind a red container, and Peter put on a burst of speed at the realisation that the man was on his home turf, almost certainly capable of losing his pursuer in the warren of warehouses and storage boxes if Peter allowed the gap between them to widen further than his line of sight. The adrenaline of the hunt now hummed warmly in his veins, and he forgot the annoyance of the water soaking into the hems of his trousers and trickling down his neck.

Peter swerved past a yellow forklift, launched himself over the concrete barrier beside the road and hurtled through the four-way crossing. He almost stumbled to one knee as he slipped on a rail, but he regained his balance and sprinted onwards. He was in good shape, but he was no marathon runner, and his breathing was becoming more ragged, every gulping breath searing his lungs, every rapid exhale condensing to a little white cloud that dissipated in his vortex. There was a persistent stitch needling beneath his ribs, and his heart was slamming against the wall of his chest as if in a futile effort to escape the strain of exertion. Yet, he was gaining; the other man's gait was becoming heavier - lumbering and uneven. The knowledge gave Peter a second wind, his own stride falling into a long, steady rhythm.

Clearly sensing that speed alone wasn't going to win him freedom, the fleeing man changed his tactics, spinning round and pulling a gun from the recesses of his clothing. He fired as he was turning and that, combined with his heavy breathing and exhausted arms, sent the bullet so wide it probably introduced itself to several seagulls on its way to the ocean. It was more of a warning, a reminder for Peter to keep his distance, than a serious attempt to kill. Partly for that reason, Peter didn't fire back, even though his gun was in his hand. He would do what was necessary to return to Elizabeth that night, but he wouldn't kill unless forced to do so. However, he slid into refuge behind one of the ubiquitous containers just in case the shooter decided to improve his marksmanship by using a Federal agent as a target. The uniquely dock-side smell of creosote, oil and rotting fish filled his nostrils, contributing to the acidic uproar in his stomach that came from being under fire.

A glance around the corner confirmed the information that his ears had relayed - his fugitive was taking advantage of the absence of pursuit to extend his lead and was disappearing into the maze of warehouses on the far side of the road. The chase was on again, but this time Peter was prepared for a more dangerous version. He also called in a quick request on his radio for back-up.

His pursuit was more cautious now, checking down each alleyway before following. It was a perfect place for ambush. Although it was only late afternoon, heavy clouds hung low overhead, creating dark pools of shadow that could certainly conceal a potential attack. However, his fugitive's actions still seemed more defensive than aggressive. Peter's careful glances at each new turn had twice revealed the other man testing doors, presumably with the idea of hiding himself inside. So far, everything had been locked.

"Give it up," he bellowed. "I've got agents closing in from all directions." He might be woefully underestimating the number of points of the compass, but Peter believed that his good intentions of taking the man alive triumphed over such quibbles of veracity. Unfortunately, his words merely spurred his prey to greater efforts. After failing to shake Peter in the labyrinth of warehouses, he plunged into one of the ruined buildings, ducking under a broken piece of plywood, tacked there to prevent that very occurrence.

Peter had no idea what the building had originally been constructed for, but it looked as if it had once been three stories high. Maybe it had some historic significance, because there seemed no other reason why it hadn't been completely torn down, since it was clearly a hazard. Unlike the huge wooden warehouses surrounding it, which seemed to consist of huge empty spaces for storage, this monstrosity was constructed with hefty steel or, judging from the amount of rust, iron girders. Much of the vertical framework was still in place, stark and forbidding against the dark gray sky, but it looked like most of the floors had fallen in, the huge beams creating the world's largest game of pick-up sticks on the ground. It was a death trap, and the choice of refuge caused Peter to wonder about the level of desperation in the man he was chasing.

The agent called in a quick update of his location, then he too squeezed under the board. There was a fallen girder lying diagonally immediately across his path, so his entry required snake-like gyrations. His progress was then impeded by an upright beam which appeared to be the focus of a local collapse. He scrambled over the debris, speed tempered by caution, the rusty metal cold and coarse under his hands. An unwary step could result in a broken ankle or it might shift a delicate balance and bring a cascade of rubble down on top of him.

His quarry was making no better headway than Peter. In fact, he appeared to be intent on proving the axiom 'more haste less speed'. Even as Peter watched, the other man caught his foot on some unseen hazard and went sprawling headlong. With a lithe twist around one upright girder and a vault over a twisted pile of rusted metal, the agent narrowed the gap between them, proximity allowing him his first good look at the perp, noting the scruff of a beard created by lack of recent shaving rather than intent, dirty blond hair plastered against his head, and a face red with exertion. Overall, he was disheveled and wheezing for breath.

Peter wasn't allowed the luxury of a long stare as the gunman again raised his weapon. Changing his mind about the merits of empty warehouses, the agent quickly stepped behind one of the delightfully solid iron beams as the bullet sang against a metallic object behind him. Yet in the abrupt movement, something snagged the bottom of his trousers, throwing him off balance and, as he staggered to regain his footing, a pipe rolled under a hastily misplaced shoe pitching him precipitously to one side. The fall shredded the leg of his pants and scraped a long swathe of skin from his shin, leaving it raw and bloody. In his effort to catch himself, he dropped his gun, slicing his palm open on a jagged projecting piece of metal. He wasn't even aware of the laceration at first, more concerned with retrieving his weapon, but the dripping blood alerted him a split second before the pain hit - a sharp pang that traveled up his arm and gave competition to the thick throbbing of his leg. Yet he couldn't let either distract him from the threat of attack.

Unable to hold the gun properly in his right hand, he transferred it to his left, pointing it in the direction of the shooter, but once again, his quarry was using the breathing space he'd created as an opportunity to escape. As Peter raised himself to one knee, weapon uplifted, the gunman reached the barriers that had been placed to prevent entry into the ruined building. He started kicking at the confining wood in a panicked frenzy. As he broke through, there was a loud grating noise, a rumble of movement from above. Peter caught a glimpse of a crescent moon barely visible through thinning clouds and framed by metallic bars, and then he had less than a heartbeat to roll beneath a protective girder and cover his head as the unaccustomed activity dislodged a precariously balanced beam and created a cascade of metallic debris from what was left of the floor above.

Peter was on the periphery rather than the epicenter of the collapse and mostly protected, but still he was pelted relentlessly by a miscellany of objects amidst a vicious cacophony of clanging and crashing. The noise echoed in his ears as he lay stunned on the ground, the taste of iron and dirt gritty in his mouth. The flak jacket had provided additional protection for his torso, but a large pole had clipped his shoulder hard and his limbs had been pummeled. He could feel the warm, tacky trickle of blood down his leg as he sat up carefully, brushing off the lighter junk that lodged in his coat. The movement caused a vicious spike of pain to drive through his shoulder, but he was fairly sure it wasn't broken.

Scrubbing dust from his eyes, he levered himself upright, staggering as his leg nearly gave way. He was now feeling decidedly less charitable towards his quarry. The smart thing to do would be to give up the pursuit and seek medical attention, and Peter Burke was smart. However, his intelligence was occasionally overridden by his tenacity - El would call it stubbornness. Once on a chase, physical or metaphorical, he sank his teeth into the idea of the successful completion of the case and refused to relinquish it, relentless to the end.

He exited the structure without further incident and caught the flicker of a shadow as it slid past a corner ahead. Peter was limping heavily, and wiles now had to be substituted for speed. The gunman had disappeared from view by the time Peter had reached the next turn. The agent turned in a circle, the icy rain flattening his hair to his skull and stinging a cut on his face. There hadn't seemed to be a destination to the course they'd taken, but Peter could now sense an underlying consistency of direction which made him suspect that maybe his quarry had a bolt hole in mind. With all the Federal agents around, it made sense that the man would want to go to ground.

As Peter loped unsteadily along, he tied a handkerchief around his still bleeding hand. Not surprisingly, his radio had been a casualty of the fall, so he was unable to contact Diana and check on the location of his backup. He tested the handle of each door he passed, and checked for signs of forced entry, all too familiar with the little scratch marks that such activity left. His persistence was rewarded when, at the fourth try, a door slid willingly to one side at his coaxing.

Instinct immediately told him he was in the right place, certainty itching inside him, adrenaline buzzing like a battery wired to his heart, the current arcing wildly. This warehouse was a smaller cousin to the one on the docks, full of stacks of wooden crates, affording plenty of possibilities for concealment. There was no sign of movement within, but it didn't feel empty of life. Eyes scanning for motion, gun held gingerly in his right hand, Peter inched forward to take shelter behind a palette of large boxes. Exposing as little of himself as possible, he peered around before moving as stealthily as his leg injuries allowed to the next area of cover.

He repeated the maneuver several times, but his hand was throbbing in sychronicity with his racing pulse, and his left shoulder was aching so much, his arm was hanging uselessly at his side. It was becoming obvious that he would likely not succeed in cornering his fugitive in the warehouse. It would be too easy for the man to slip out of another exit or maneuver round the agent as Peter moved deeper into the building. Awkwardly, he reached into his pocket and drew out his cell phone, which appeared to be undamaged. It had been switched off to avoid causing a distraction at a pivotal moment or giving away his position.

He turned it on, noting he had several messages, and called Diana. Her voice was controlled, but tight with concern. "Boss! We heard a shot. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He raised his voice as loud as he could without actively shouting - a message to the other occupant of the building. "Special Agent Barrigan, I need you to take your people and surround Warehouse 43. Cover all the exits and be careful - there's an armed man inside."

There was a slight pause as Diana tried to parse the message conveyed by her official title. "Yes, Sir. We'll be right there."

Peter slipped the phone into his coat pocket then called out, "We can go on playing hide and seek, but this can only end one way. My team is closing in on this building and the whole docks are locked down." He heard a rustle over to his left and aimed his gun and his words in that direction. "Throw out your gun and come out with your hands up."

A soft susurration reached his ears, and he strained to catch the sound. It was almost like whispering, and it made him wonder if there were more than one perp, or maybe the gunman was calling in reinforcements himself.

Before he could satisfy his curiosity, a voice shouted, "All right. I'm coming out. Don't shoot."

Peter should have been encouraged and relieved, but he remembered the desperation in the man's face as he fought his way out of the ruined building - it wasn't the expression of a man prepared to tamely surrender, so he was more suspicious than triumphant.

"Throw your weapon out and don't try anything clever."

There was a metallic thud, then the gun scraped along the floor, spinning twice before friction halted its path. "I'm coming out. Don't shoot."

Hands held high, the gunman stepped out from behind his own stack of boxes. Sweat was dripping in tiny rivulets down his chiseled face, adding to the dark stains the rain had left on his coveralls. There was no defeat in his stance, every muscle quivering with the desire for flight, his eyes white with panic.

Everything felt wrong, the air tight, twisted into something hot and expectant. Peter's intuition raised a hand with a red flag waving urgently in it, so he stayed behind his palette, revealing only enough of himself to see what was happening and to maintain the threat of his weapon. "Kneel down and interlace your fingers behind your head."

With palpable reluctance, the man went down on one knee, then sank down on both, placing shaking hands behind his head. The shortcomings of Peter's plan immediately presented themselves. Either he had to leave cover to put handcuffs on his suspect and complete the arrest procedure or he had to tell the man to stand up again and join him in the limited space behind the palette. Neither alternative registered on a self-preservation scale of one to ten. He followed a hunch. "Who else is in here?"

The man rocked forward as if receiving a blow, his throat working convulsively, and his eyes cutting inadvertently to the left. It was enough to set sirens off beside the frantically fluttering red flags. Peter's nerves sparked wildly at the realisation that he had so nearly walked into a trap.

"Come on out," he ordered his unseen adversary, scrutinizing the area unwittingly indicated by his prisoner. There was no immediate response, but Peter could sense someone there, the tension stretching around them, as if straining to split at the seams and unravel, disgorging its contents in a projectile outbreak of violence.

When that moment came, some atavistic survival instinct saved Peter, reflexes throwing him back into safety before he was even consciously aware of seeing the barrel of an automatic rifle, the first bullet missing him by mere inches. The noise was intense, almost disorienting, the echoing outpouring of murderous fury as muzzle blasts, sonic booms and impact bursts combined into a continuous explosive roar. Wood splintered off in jagged fragments above his head as the boxes he was sheltering behind disintegrated under the withering fire.

It appeared to continue indefinitely, a lifetime of thunder and destruction that seemed to extract the oxygen from the air, until he wasn't able to breathe as if a giant wrench were tightening down on him, a terrifying crushing pressure in his chest screaming for release. Even when it paused momentarily, the noise still rang strongly in his ears. Knowing the momentary respite was the result of a magazine change, Peter took advantage of the lull to fire off a couple of deterring shots of his own and to dive into sturdier cover.

As the second clip exploded in a similar message of furious devastation, Peter discovered that familiarity certainly did not breed contempt, not even a smidgen of disdain. It was just as terrifying as before, the sheer volume of sound short-circuiting thought and cramping his gut in a vice of sick dread. A glance across the floor showed him the consequences of being caught in the open. His erstwhile fugitive had clearly outlived his usefulness as bait to draw Peter out, and had been cut down in the midst of his attempt to run. His body was sprawled in a bloody, lifeless heap, an object lesson on the merits of remaining shielded.

Peter risked impalement by shrapnel as he squirmed around to try to map out a route to safety. The chances appeared remote that he could successfully exit the building without attempting to dodge a hail of bullets, However, if he took the unexpected step of heading deeper into the warehouse to where the crates were stacked in almost continuous piles, he would no longer be pinned down in an obvious location. The new gunman would hopefully lose track of him, and the situation would evolve into a dangerous, but more even, game of cat and mouse, or cat and cat, since Peter would resume his role of hunter, trying to outflank his opponent. It wasn't much of a plan, in fact it could be categorized as merely wishful thinking, but Peter preferred to take an active role rather than huddle in a corner hoping the bullets didn't find him.

In the next pause, he successfully reached the main storage area, but his attempt to conceal his whereabouts was immediately foiled by the ringing of his phone. He fumbled for it more out of a desire to silence the tone than out of an aspiration to answer. Yet even in extremis, he checked the caller ID, not wanted El to listen to him under fire. It was Diana, and in a sudden panic of foreboding he pressed the talk button. It was impossible to hear what she was saying, but it was equally impossible to miss the agitation in her voice.

"I'm fine." He found himself shouting in an effort to drown out the constant blasting of the weapon, but it probably wasn't the smartest idea he'd ever had. "Do not enter this building. That is an order. Wait for SWAT. You are outgunned. I repeat, do not enter this building."

Something familiar about the situation sparked an idea and, before disconnecting, he hastily added, "Call me back in exactly one minute." Placing the phone on the ground, he faded into the shadows, possibilities playing through his mind. He could use the call as a distraction to try to rejoin his team or at least gain considerable distance or a secure hiding spot until SWAT's arrival. He could stay close and throw an ambush of his own or circle around and come in behind the gunman. He decided to keep his options open, but moved around in a wide circle that would hopefully fulfill the later scenario if he chose to pursue it.

The gunfire ceased, and the silence that swarmed in was loud, echoing eerily off the packing boxes surrounding him. The rapid fire of the assault weapon in his ears was replaced by the restive thudding of his own heart. His assailant appeared to be listening intently, hoping that Peter would betray his new location, but not interested in wasting ammunition now he could no longer pinpoint his target. Peter slipped quietly to the end of a row of boxes, hideously aware of every minute sound he made - the unavoidable rustling of his clothing and the slight squelch of rain and blood with every step. He looked behind in sudden fear that he was leaving a clear trail of sticky red footprints that would lead even the most oblivious tracker straight to him, but, to his relief, there was nothing obvious.

At that moment, the phone began to ring, and there was a burst of activity from the opposite side of the building that told Peter that his ruse had succeeded. However, he was also too far away to outflank the gunman before the trick was discovered, so he opted for discretion over valor and, at the next outburst of gunfire, he ran for an exit he found at the back of the warehouse. Opening the door cautiously, he wasn't surprised to find Jones and an element of SWAT forces poised outside. He waved them in, leading them towards the gunman's position. As they drew closer to the sound of gunfire, the tactical officer tapped Peter on the shoulder and indicated that he should fall back, allowing the team to do their job and apprehend the shooter.

He followed the ensuing events aurally - SWAT's challenge, a familiar rattle of gunfire cut off mid-rally by a deeper barking series of shots that ended with a meaty thud and the clatter of a gun hitting the ground.

"Any other suspects?" the rearguard officer asked, not relaxing his vigilance.

"Not as far as I'm aware," Peter answered, after a moment's thought. He leaned back against a convenient pile of boxes. The abruptly departing adrenaline was stealing the strength from his frame as it drained, and for a moment, black spots flickered dizzyingly before his eyes.

"Peter?"

He waved Jones off. "I'm fine." His voice was gruff and breathless, and it took him a minute to realise he was using Neal's pet phrase and almost as speciously, because he wasn't exactly in top shape. He felt battered, like he'd been left out in the elements so long his body had cured like a strip of leather. He'd have more sympathy with the rawhide bones Satchmo chewed on in the future.

Suddenly, it wasn't Jones in front of him anymore, but Diana, and she wasn't as easy to placate. "Boss, we should get you to the hospital."

"I really am fine." Peter straightened up in a fairly transparent attempt to bolster the veracity of his statement, casually concealing the blood-soaked handkerchief behind him. It didn't help his case.

"The blood you're wearing on the outside of your body begs to differ," she responded tartly.

"It looks worse than it is. Just scratches and bruises, no bullet holes." She didn't look appeased so he added, "I'll have myself checked out when I visit Neal this evening, I promise. But first, we need to finish up here. What have we got?"

Diana's disapproving frown dissolved into a delighted grin, making her look ten years younger. "Oh, Boss, you're going to want to see this. Come on, I'll drive you before the leg you're not limping on collapses under you."

Peter acknowledged her point with a rueful tilt of his head. "Jones, take charge here. There's another body near the front of the building - the suspect I was originally chasing. He was shot down by the second shooter. Search both of them thoroughly and see if you can find anything that could help with the investigation."

Their route out of the building took them past the remnants of Peter's phone, the target of the shooter's ire in its owner's absence. Diana then drove him back to the pier where they'd made their first entrance. There was a multitude of law enforcement personnel swarming around - from customs to ATF. It had apparently become an interdepartmental case. All the crates were in the process of being opened. Diana led him to one that had already been searched. Written on the wood were the innocuous words 'irrigation equipment,' but nestled between the promised pipes was an arsenal of weapons.

Peter stared at them grimly. "Irrigation equipment, huh? All this is going to water the fields with is blood."

"It looks like Jones was right about the drug connection. I bet these are intended for the drug lords."

"I wonder if they were smuggling drugs back into the country." Peter's response was distracted, a frown marring his forehead as he stared down at the guns. This was big - a case that could make an agent's career, and there was certainly a part of him that was deeply satisfied to have brought down what was clearly a highly organised smuggling ring. He no longer saw the political gains of such wins in terms of his career, but he reluctantly recognised they were useful as bartering points to protect his team from official machinations.

Right now, all he cared about was finding conclusive evidence to clear Neal's name. Proving that the company Fowler worked for was engaged in highly illegal activity would certainly introduce more doubt into Neal's murder case, muddying the waters considerably. But even if they dodged the bullet of that conviction, Peter was afraid it wasn't sufficient to keep his friend out of jail. Neal's flight during the Board of Review had embarrassed many influential people, and forgiveness for convicted felons was hard-won at the best of times. They had been warned that the slightest transgression would lead to the deal being rescinded and Neal being returned to jail.

In a moment of depressing insight, he realised that nothing short of finding Fowler's actual killer would definitively exculpate Neal. Lacking that, there was only one other thing he could think to try. He turned to Diana. "I want you and Jones to try to trace the history of every one of these guns. If we can prove that the weapon that killed Fowler came from an identical source, it would be a solid step in exonerating Neal."

She looked dubious, and he didn't blame her; it was a monumental task. However, she nodded agreeably. "I'll get on that, Boss. Why don't you head to the hospital and give Neal the good news."

She was looking pointedly at his hand as she spoke, and following her line of sight, Peter realised that blood had soaked through the handkerchief and was staining his fingers prior to dripping on the ground. He'd almost forgotten his injuries in the flurry of activity, but at the reminder, they acknowledged his belated recognition with renewed throbbing, the pain weaving tighter and hotter around his hand while his shoulder and leg screamed for equal attention.

"It'll keep," he said shortly. "We need to raid the Agroking offices and confiscate all their paperwork before they have the chance to destroy the incriminating documents."

Diana didn't often argue with her Boss, but this time concern overruled propriety and respect. "You could at least see the medic that..." She was interrupted by urgent cry.

"Peter...Peter!" The flight of Jones' coattails was a testimonial to his speed as he raced through the door. He skidded to a halt, chest heaving as he waved a small object in his hand. It took a moment for him to recover sufficiently for his speech to be intelligible. "I found a phone on our dead suspect. I checked his messages and texts. This was the last text he sent."

It contained only three figures, '523' but at the sight of them fear wrapped icy fingers around Peter's heart and pumped broken glass through his veins.

"That's Neal's room number. They're going after Neal!"


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Neal hated his hospital bed. Maybe it wasn't the most uncomfortable thing he'd ever lain on - his prison accommodation probably won that prize - but then he hadn't been stuck on that for nearly 24 hours a day. He shifted a little, trying to find an easier position, then turned and gave the pillow several whacks in an ostensible effort to shape it more agreeably. This felt as much like prison as jail had ever done. To complete the symbolism, the bed even had bars on the side to trap people in its tortuous confines. Admittedly, these railings weren't up at the moment, and some might see them as being useful in preventing certain patients from taking a header onto the floor, but Neal was not in the mood for reasonableness.

Neal was usually a count-your-blessings type of guy, but right now, he wanted to enumerate the many ways in which he was miserable. Number one on his list of miseries was the fact that he had no one to whom he could recount his list of miseries. Mozzie hated hospitals, and he also disliked being subjected to the scrutiny of the 'federal flunkies' outside Neal's door. If he came at all, it would be at night - his way of flouting visiting regulations and not submitting to the dual authorities of hospital and government. Neither could Neal expect a visit from Peter any time soon. The agent only came late in the evenings and had specifically said he might not make it that night.

Which brought Neal to the second item on his inventory of woe. While Neal lay in bed squeezing his rubber band ball and counting the ceiling tiles around George and the Dragon, the entire White Collar team was out in the field risking their lives in an effort to clear his name. That was wrong on so many levels that this category had its own page on his list. Neal Caffrey was no maiden in distress to be rescued. He had a dozen schemes, scams and escape plans for every one of his adversary's. Yet here he was, powerless, tied to the bed by the most intangible of bonds - Peter's word. By putting his career on the line if Neal ran, Peter had secured him more tightly than the heaviest most impenetrable steel chains. Meanwhile, Peter was confronting the bad guys without his partner by his side.

Neal rolled over and launched another attack on his pillow, trying to beat it into submission, but it lacked the cathartic effect he was looking for. The slight commotion caused Agent Rowe, his pro tem bodyguard, to poke his head round the door. Neal gave him a little wave, a twinkling of his fingers and his most insouciant smile which caused the agent to offer a quelling frown and retreat like a turtle drawing his head back into his shell. Since Peter had pulled his entire team for the raid on Agroking at the docks, Neal had been allocated the irascible and nearly retired Agent Rowe, who was no more pleased to be there than Neal. The agent appeared to have missed the memo that his role was more to protect Neal than to be his warden.

Neal slumped back into his pillows and stared at the dust motes disturbed by his actions floating in a weak beam of light from the window. He hated how out of control he felt, lacking any sense of mastery over his circumstances or his feelings. His emotions, thick and volatile, lodged uncomfortably inside him, pushing awkwardly against tear ducts and bile ducts alike, causing grief and fury to spray uncontrollably from him like steam from the most unpredictable geyser finally released from underground pressure to catch unsuspecting onlookers in a boiling shower. The only person who seemed immune from these explosions was Peter. He treated the eruptions more like splutterings of an overfilled kettle.

He was a source of endless patience, a solid wall absorbing the force of the tidal waves of Neal's emotions, smoothing out troughs and peaks, neutralizing the energy of tantrums and restoring the younger man's usual good humor. His psychiatrist had explained the physiological and psychological reasons behind his depression, the link between his brain injury and this emotional lability, so Neal understood that this roller coaster of emotion wasn't his fault, yet there was still a considerable part of him that saw it as a weakness. There was a scooped-out raw feeling in his chest, as if a part of him was missing. It was easier to accept the infirmity of his body than the betrayal of his mind. He was a conman; even if he couldn't control these feelings, he should be able to fake controlling it, convince everybody that he was back to his normal self.

He'd been ready to reclaim his independence after only a couple of days of being fussed over and hating almost every minute of it. The only bright side had been those few hours a day when Peter was there. His partner's care for him had been patient and exemplary, mostly firm and conscientious, but with judicious capitulation to Neal's most stubborn demands. Deep inside, Neal's greatest fear was that Peter would see him as pathetic and clinging and lose respect for him, because Neal knew that he was using the older man as a crutch, a moor-line holding Neal's mental ship in harbor, but at the same time, their closeness and affection seemed to be a natural evolution in their relationship, not an aberration.

Really this was no different from normal - Peter harnessing Neal's exuberance and talents and channeling them into a more socially acceptable form. Despite his protectiveness, Peter had enveloped him in normality by allowing him to assist on the case. Most importantly, Peter had offered him a double trust - faith that he hadn't committed a heinous act that he himself couldn't remember and a promise. Neal hadn't allowed himself to think about that too closely. It was a jewel too precious to be sullied by exposure to other eyes or by speculation and comment. He would hoard it in his heart. He hadn't even mentioned it to Mozzie. His Machiavellian friend, on arrival, had immediately proposed escape attempts, and Neal had listened to his increasingly outlandish schemes with enjoyment but had declined his assistance, citing his trust in Peter's investigative abilities. It wasn't even a lie. He would place his safety unreservedly in Peter's hands, and that wasn't a new sensation for him.

Neal mental peregrinations were interrupted by Agent Rowe, who once again stuck his head around the door. "Hey Caffrey. It's time for your physio appointment."

Neal glanced at the clock and saw that it was indeed time for his final and favourite session of the day. Most of the therapists visited him in his room, but this was the one opportunity he had to escape its confines. However, for once, he was reluctant to leave since he'd hoped to hear from Peter about the success of the team's operation. His cell phone had been confiscated during his arrest, so he couldn't be contacted except through the hospital phone. He was tempted to call Peter, but knew the dangers of causing a distraction during a bust.

"S-s-sure," he said reluctantly. "L-let th-them in." An orderly pushed in the wheelchair, and Neal swung himself off the bed and into the chair. It was standard procedure for transportation within the hospital, and it had been drilled into Neal how very important it was that he didn't fall and re-injure his head.

He didn't recognise the orderly, but that wasn't unusual. This was a large hospital, and the hindrance in his speech had discouraged him from his usual overtures of friendship. The physiotherapy department was on the third floor, and they were accompanied into the elevator by Agent Rowe carrying his fishing magazine. As the doors started to close, another patient was wheeled up, and Rowe obligingly stuck out an arm to prevent the door from closing, allowing them on to share the elevator ride. Everybody stared politely ahead, and the journey was completed in silence unrelieved by as much as elevator music. Neal was stuck in front of the control panel, and he amused himself by refreshing his knowledge of Braille, running a finger lightly over the raised dots, finding a strange comfort in the immediate, although not exactly fluent, connection of meaning.

Everybody disembarked on the third floor. The physiotherapy department was always busy, and as they entered, they passed several patients just finishing their sessions. Neal's physical therapist, Martin, was overworked - too many patients, too much paperwork and not enough time. He was still fairly young, but the relentless pace of a large hospital was already sapping his energy. His relative inexperience also accounted for the fact that Neal had been successfully pulling a con on him almost from the beginning, concealing the progress he was making. He wasn't sure why he'd started the deception - maybe out of habit and as a means of amusing himself or a way to exert control over some part of his environment. However, he had maintained the pretense when he'd realised that a significant improvement in his condition would mean a move to a less salubrious location, and the truth was that, as much as he sometimes thought of his hospital room as a jail, it really didn't compare to prison. The company was much nicer, for one thing.

Neal balanced on the exercise ball in a lackluster fashion, feigning far more difficulty with the simple exercise than he felt. He practiced his own routine in the privacy of his room and was satisfied at the rate at which his strength, balance and coordination were returning. As he wobbled with convincing uncertainty on the ball, he watched those around him, studying mannerisms and peculiarities - the awkwardness of gait here, the curl of arthritic fingers there. A good conman needed the fuel of genuine experience and observation to cultivate his work, making him a student of human nature. He glanced over at Rowe, but the agent was so deeply immersed in his magazine, Neal could have danced the waltz then tangoed out the entrance without Rowe being any the wiser.

The agent might have been oblivious to his charge, but Neal could feel eyes focusing on him from elsewhere in the room. He'd spent too much of his life on the run to be unaware of such scrutiny, so, under the guise of stretching out aching muscles, he attempted to locate the source of the surveillance. Nobody was acting suspiciously. The patients were concentrating on their exercises, the therapists were concentrating on their patients and the few odd visitors and extraneous members of staff - Neal noticed the orderly had returned with a wheelchair - were concentrating on a variety of electronic devices. There was no guilty start or suspicious avoidance of eye contact. It must have been Martin checking Neal's progress on the balance.

A fretful flutter of annoyance and frustration buffeted the usually robust walls of Neal's patience, building to a dissonant roar of bitterness. He was tired of being observed, tired even of the subterfuge in which he was engaged. He wanted to feel like himself again, in control of mind, body and speech, for things to go back to normal. He yearned to return to his own place in June's loft, to throw back a glass of wine while discussing arcane artistic theory with Mozz, and, most of all, to walk out of the FBI elevator and return to his challenging, but ultimately satisfying, partnership with Peter. He had a sudden urge to call the agent, needing to know that his friends were safe and that his case was closer to being resolved.

He made his excuses to Martin, citing stomach pains, and waved over the orderly, slumping awkwardly back into the wheelchair. Agent Rowe ambled towards them, boredom inscribed in the sag of his face and drooping lines around his mouth. "Everything alright?" he asked, his eyes flickering suspiciously to the clock. "I thought this went on until six."

It was typical, Neal thought uncharitably, that the man showed concern just when Neal didn't want it. "I'm tired," he explained shortly.

His curt tone made no impact on the agent, who led the way out of the area. Neal leaned back, detached from the people around him, idly watching the industrial walls skimming by, their neutral tones of beige and pale blue echoing his disinterested mood. He followed the lines of the fluorescent lights as they mapped the way down the corridor to the elevator. The orderly pushed the wheelchair into the restricted space, turning them so that his back was against the wall and Neal was once again facing the panel. As the doors slid shut with a slight thud, Rowe stepped forward to push the button to the fifth floor. A loud pop echoed, causing Neal to startle, and the agent's body crumpled, one hand briefly sliding down the control panel as if attempting to keep him upright.

It was so unexpected, it took a moment for understanding to filter into Neal's brain. He drew a breath to shout for assistance, thinking Rowe was suffering from a heart attack, not connecting the noise and the collapse, but a hand grabbed his hair, pulling his head back, and a burning ring of metal pressed under his ear. As realisation dawned, fear stropped like a razor across his nerves, his heart hammering violently in a chest growing tight from shock.

The killer's voice hissed menacingly. "Don't make a sound. Don't try anything, and you might just survive the night."

Neal gave a fractional nod, not believing it for a moment, but forcibly relaxing his muscles to convince his captor that he did. The ersatz orderly kept his gun trained on Neal as he shifted closer to the control panel, using a foot to shove the dead agent out of his way. He inserted a small key, then pressed the button to the lower basement, a level usually locked to the patients and visitors using the elevator. The car jolted and started its downwards journey.

Panic was crawling inside Neal's ribcage and taking up residence around his heart, but his mind was clearer than it had been since waking from his coma, the realities of his situation lighting up like a trail of stars leading to clear conclusions. He didn't believe that the man would let the witness to the murder of a federal agent live. However, framing him for the murder would fit a pattern already established. If Rowe were found murdered and Neal disappeared, it would confirm his status as a cold-blooded killer in the eyes of the law, whereas if his body were found alongside the agent's, it would start a massive manhunt for their killer and a rethinking of Fowler's death.

Neal was being kept alive because he was a convenient scapegoat. Who would think twice about the convicted felon as murderer? Someone was banking on the assumption that the police would look no further than his criminal record. They clearly didn't know Peter. Neal knew better than anyone just how inexorable his partner could be when it came to finding answers or wrapping up a case. He'd probably never appreciated that quality in Peter more than he did at that moment. However, that tenacity wouldn't help Neal right now.

His survival was only a temporary condition. It was simply easier for the gunman to abscond with a willing victim that for him to drag a dead body unnoticed from the hospital. Neal would undoubtedly be disposed of in a more convenient and covert location like the Hudson River or the concrete foundations of some building - some dark final resting place where even Peter wouldn't find him.

Neal allowed his head to loll forward in miserable exhaustion, although it was mostly feigned. Through his bangs, and using the reflections off the metallic wall, he kept a careful surveillance of the killer's movements. He could see the suppressor on the gun and, if it were leveled in his direction, Neal would attempt to fight, refusing to allow himself to be shot down like a dog. The wheelchair would hamper his defence as it necessitated his rising up and out of it before attempting to fight back. He started to ponder the ways he could change that, to make the chair a weapon in his strategy.

He noted that the man seemed strangely confident, almost insultingly so, as if he totally discounted the possibility of Neal causing problems. Neal wasn't complaining; his chances improved exponentially with each inch of latitude he was given, but he just wasn't used to being underestimated. It was puzzling, casting doubts on the gunman's professionalism. If he hadn't been a hair's breath from death, Neal might have laughed as the realisation struck him. The killer had been watching him in the physiotherapy department and had fallen for an act that hadn't even been intended for him. He'd accepted the image projected by Neal of an invalid, rather than an athletic, healthy young man well versed in evasion and escape techniques.

Neal reminded himself that he wasn't actually in great condition right now. Walking the few yards to the bathroom without problems might have seemed the ultimate in victory at the time, but it was a far cry from a green light for violent altercations or sustained sprinting. His gaze fell regretfully on the body of the dead agent. Part of him was guiltily relieved that none of his friends had been on duty at the time, but maybe they would have been more alert to possible danger, not turning their backs to the seemingly harmless orderly. But the truth was, after all this time, they had all become complacent.

The elevator settled with a rumble and another bump. There was a savage hiss in his ear. "You call anyone for help, and I'll shoot them before finishing you off. Got it?"

Neal nodded and allowed his shoulders to slump in despondent submission. He wondered who would be in the sub-basement of a hospital after 6 pm - the killer had probably timed his attack based on that very reason - maybe a janitor, or a morgue attendant. Personally, he was hoping for a lack of people but a surfeit of phones. He didn't want to get anyone killed, but he would certainly like to phone a friend. The one he had in mind was six foot two, broadly built, with overactive protective instincts and, most importantly, a Glock 19.

In the reflections off the walls, Neal could no longer see the gun. The killer seemed to have tucked it away, either preparatory to pushing the wheelchair or to conceal it from potential onlookers. Doubtless, it would be available in a second, but it still offered Neal the opening he needed. The elevator doors rumbled open, ushering in a pungently musty smell from the dimly-lit corridor beyond. It was immediately apparent that the subbasement wasn't a frequent destination for anyone but the occasional member of the janitorial staff.

Neal's stomach felt as if it had taken up macramé, twisting into intricate knots. Muscles quivered in a confusing mixture of eager anticipation and sheer terror, but he tried not to telegraph his increasing tension. He needed to seem resigned and compliant until the opportune moment. The wheelchair started moving, lurching slightly over the door tracks. Neal had practiced the move several times in his head, but as the time came, he reacted without allowing himself the luxury of thought.

He sprang up, spinning around all in one move. He caught a glimpse of the gunman's startled expressed and the hand groping for the gun in his waistband, but Neal's concentration was focused elsewhere. His hands outreached, he slammed them into the cushioned back of the chair, ramming it like a missile back into his assailant. Throwing his whole weight behind it, legs churning, he kept it moving. The gunman was forced back into the elevator, windmilling his arms in a vain effort to stay on his feet, but one final push sent him sprawling backwards, the wheelchair crashing on top of him.

Neal didn't stay to admire his work or receive a bullet for his pains; he'd already reversed his course, taking time only to slam his palm on the control panel, directing the elevator to a higher floor and, hopefully, ordering the doors shut. They closed as he shot through as if spat out by an explosion. As he turned to go down the corridor, his weakened leg buckled, sending him careening into the wall, stumbling to a knee, but he was up before feeling the pain of the collision. To his ineffable relief, the elevator started its journey upwards, but he knew it was only a very temporary reprieve. At most, he probably had one minute, the time it took for the cab to reach the next floor, open the doors, and close again as the gunman ordered it back down.

Neal began a countdown in his head (_59, 58.._.) as he raced along exploring the corridor. It was immediately clear that this level had suffered during Hurricane Sandy. Dampness still abounded, the taint of mold and mildew strong despite the spray of bleach. A multitude of parallel and interconnected pipes and ducts led the way overhead, but none of them were close to a size which would offer concealment. The first door on the left was locked. It was rudimentary security which he could have broken through in seconds with his lockpicks, but he didn't have time to attempt it with the one paperclip currently on his person. (_53, 52.._.)

He plunged ahead, skidding slightly on a slippery patch, the origins of which he refused to contemplate. The second door didn't even possess a lock, and as he flung it open, it was immediately obvious why - there was nothing that even the most desperate thief would want to steal. It was a storage space for excess cleaning supplies like the large buckets of bleach stacked on the shelves that would give the Leaning Tower of Pisa a run for its money, and for items that hadn't made it to the landfill yet like wornout or broken chairs. Neal cast these items the merest glance. Mozzie might have McGyvered a bomb out of these items, but Neal lacked both the time and the expertise for that. He wasn't even looking for a hiding place, but scanned the walls with practiced eyes for an escape route, a laundry chute to climb up or a sizable air duct to crawl inside. But nothing caught his eye, and he exploded into renewed motion, hoping the next room might offer more options.(_45, 44..._).

His heart was thumping as if it might burst, and his chest was too tight, the constraints of time a weight that made it ache to breathe. Even if he found the perfect hidden passageway, it was unlikely he'd have time to unscrew its cover or shift the furniture covering it. It had occurred to him that there had to be an exit from this level, because the gunman had intentionally aimed for the subbasement and the key to the elevator showed the extent of preparation that had gone into the assassination plan. However, it was a last resort for Neal, since there was an excellent chance that a car and a confederate were waiting for the killer outside that door. Neal would prefer to do the unexpected, to double back around the killer or set off an alarm of some sort.

The second room offered no more potential than the first. It was a dumping ground for broken pieces of machinery, presumably preserved for replacement parts. Neal played with the idea of barricading the door with some of the bulkier pieces, but it didn't look stout enough to withstand a concerted attack, and it would be hard to overcome the ingrained instinct to always have an alternate escape route. There were another couple of rooms on the left, but Neal opted for the only doorway on the right in the hopes of a different layout. (_37, 36.._.) Even as he groped for the light switch, he could sense from echoey sounds within that the area was large, but he wasn't expecting the huge open space that looked more like an abandoned parking garage than something you would find in the basement of a hospital.

There were square foot-wide pillars every ten yards or so, the whitewashed paint peeling off in large swathes and decorating the slightly green, moldy floor. It was almost empty, but a few large, rusty but functional, objects occupied one end. Dominating the area were two hefty tanks lying horizontally on concrete supports, multiple pipes leading away from them. A boiler hummed not too far away, and a waste-water sump connected to a centrifugal pump completed the assembly.

With only half of his time remaining, Neal was running out of options. He had to make a decision. There was nowhere to go and scant choices for hiding places. Desperation was mounting, a solid hard lump in his gut, but he didn't let it swell to panic, instead using it as a fuel for inspiration. He would make the whole subbasement a hiding place! Snatching up an iron bar from a small pile of debris, he tore back to the elevator. He was hyper aware of the humming machine inside the shaft, but resolutely ignored it. Instead, he brought his pole down with a sharp crack on the emergency light opposite, extinguishing its red glow. An overhead swipe took out the light in the ceiling further down the corridor, the glass of the bulb narrowly missing him as it rained down in his wake. He repeated the maneuver in all four rooms on the left, destruction honed to a fine art with repetition, yet still costly with mere seconds left on the clock.

He entered the main chamber like a whirling dervish, covering the slippery ground in a flash, spinning and swiping at any source of light, shards cascading dangerously in an innocuously musical tinkle. His arms hung heavily and his lungs ached, chest flaring in dull pain each time his lungs inflated, forcing the intercostal muscles to flex. With one light left, his countdown was shrieking an alarm as it entered negative figures. He glanced around to cement the layout of the space in his head, then brought the bar down on the last, hapless bulb. Darkness was instant and total, a sensory deprivation of blackness.

The loss of visual clues left his balance precarious, the weakness in his right side further confusing his equilibrium, leaving him reeling dizzily. His ears strained to compensate for lack of vision and, over the gentle drone of machinery, he heard the distinct ping that heralded the arrival of the elevator and opening of its doors. Terror seized his heart and squeezed, freezing him in position. Despite his efforts, he'd never felt more exposed. Fear of the dark had never been an issue for him as he enjoyed the concealment it offered, but now it felt oppressive, a live presence awaiting his movements. In his mind, he could see the killer, poised and predatory, by the elevator. The light from the open doors reflected down the hall, casting the faintest glow through the doorway to where Neal was standing. His eyes grew used to the dim conditions, and he could see the darker cast of the nearest pillar. Beyond that, shadows danced mockingly, creating brief evanescent shapes that dissolved when he looked directly at them.

A scraping sound from the corridor puzzled him until he realised that the killer was dragging Rowe's body out of the elevator, and it was grating on the glass fragments. It broke the frozen tableau and started Neal moving, feeling his way silently across the floor to his chosen hiding place. Not too far from the tanks, a veritable spaghetti junction of pipes offered secure footing to climb up to access a large round pipe running close to the ceiling. The size of its curvature against the flat wall meant there was a useful niche into which to wedge his body. Hopefully, he'd be totally concealed, and if the killer chose to climb up to investigate, he'd need both hands to do so, putting them on terms of greater equality and giving Neal the advantage of height. It was a tactically sound decision.

He would have to relinquish his own weapon since there was too great a possibility of metal clanging against metal in his ascent. He placed the rod with exquisite care flat on the floor, where it would hopefully meld with other debris, and started to climb. He was usually exceptionally sure-footed, climbing with the grace and accomplishment of SpiderMan on steroids, but the muscles in his thighs shook with the effort of each step, and his fingers trembled with exhaustion. Climbing exclusively by touch in the pitch black while maintaining complete silence while recovering from a coma took more than superhuman effort; it took grim determination, courage and an unhealthy amount of adrenaline.

The faint glow from the elevator had disappeared, which wasn't surprising since it would set off an alarm if it remained inaccessible for long. The slight blood stain on the tiled floor wouldn't be remarkable in a hospital environment. Neal had hoped that, confronted with the difficult job of finding his target in the dark, and with a dead FBI agent at his feet, the hitman would opt for discretion over valor, intending to return when conditions were more favourable to finish the job. This was clearly a vain hope.

Despite legs leaden with exhaustion and hands slippery with sweat, Neal clambered to the top of the structure. Reaching up, he could feel the ceiling overhead. The last step was the hardest, shifting his weight over the large bulge of the pipe. It meant losing his secure footholds, and a miscalculation would send him crashing back to the floor, easy prey for the gunman. The metal was cold and scratchy against his sternum as his right hand groped blindly along the length of the pipe for some sort of hold. At his farthest reach, he found one of the brackets that fastened it to the wall. Stretching painfully on tiptoe, he was able to hook two fingers around it. It was a precarious and uncomfortable position, but the crunch of glass underfoot halfway down the corridor, forced him to commit to the last stage of his plan.

Luckily, his flexibility wasn't as impaired as his strength. Using up all his reserves, he lifted his leg over the pipe, digging his toes down as far as he could for the best purchase, then attempted to drag his torso over. It was an agonizing process of scraping inch by inch, the rust grating against the skin on his chest, his fingers cramping, feeling almost severed by the strain, but finally his center of balance tipped, and he was over the top. He tucked himself into the space, cramming a shoulder and hip as far as possible into the crack, then finally allowed himself to relax, a shudder ripping through him as his body catalogued the groaning cacophony of aches left by his efforts.

He strained his eyes to try to evaluate his hiding place, but the dark was so total, he couldn't work out if his body was totally hidden from the floor if the killer looked up from the far side of the basement. He ran a gentle hand around to explore his surroundings, but it told him little.

Footsteps crunched closer, falling like the beat of an executioner's drum. His heart skittered with fear, pattering against his ribs, and he tried to quiet his harsh breathing by holding his hand over his mouth. There was no sound or sight to which he could ascribe the intuition, but he suddenly knew that the killer had reached his room. The silence was somehow more intense, the physical presence of another person disturbing the pressure in the room and raising the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

His surroundings were suddenly bathed in the faintest glow of light, and he shrank involuntarily backwards, but there was nowhere to go. The warmth of his stifled breath moistened his palm, but he was too preoccupied with this new phenomena to notice. Thinking discovery was imminent, his heart gave two sickening thuds, then clenched tight and cramped against his breastbone until a series of musical beeps informed him that the hitman was using his cell phone. Neal knew from experience that the light from such a device did not provide a lot of illumination - not enough to betray his location from the floor, but hearing the cold, dry tones of the killer so close made discovery seem inevitable.

"It's me...not yet. He's a slippery little bastard and got away, but I've got him pinned down in the basement." The man was smart, standing in the doorway so he could keep an eye, or at least an ear, on both the corridor and the basement to forestall an escape in either direction. "I need a flashlight. Is there one in the car?... Well, that's better than nothing. Bring it in through the back door."

Silence reformed in a brittle shell around Neal. Every muscle was tense but motionless, his pulse racing so ferociously from exertion and alarm that he was afraid it would shake the whole heating system. This wasn't the first time he'd been in such a desperate situation, so he was experienced in the utter stillness necessary to avoid detection, but it had never been this personal - a hitman sent for the express purpose of murdering him - and he could usually rely on both his athleticism to carry him swiftly out of trouble and on an accomplice to assist in his getaway - Mozzie, Kate, Alex, even, in the distant past, Matthew Keller. More recently, Neal had grown accustomed to the more law-abiding, but infinitely dependable back up of Peter and his team.

Right now, none of his friends even knew he was in trouble, isolated and perched like a seal on a precarious ice floe with the sharks circling underneath. Loneliness closed around him like a vice, despair its companion. Plans still ricocheted round his mind, but they collided and bounced with no particular direction. His thought processes were ragged and fraying, his brain seemingly not irrigated by blood any longer. Even if he concocted a scheme to zip slide out of the room using the copious spider webs that now cocooned his body, he was aware that physically he'd hit his limits. His joints felt like crumbling concrete and his muscles were on fire. If he succeeded in luring the two men into another part of the basement, leaving him with a free run at the exit, he probably couldn't descend from his nest and make it out the door before they were alerted, and he didn't think his mouth could run fast enough to outmaneuver a bullet this time.

There was a clatter from the far end of the room, and the sound of heavy footsteps on concrete steps. Neal followed the progress of the newcomer aurally, puzzled by the soft blush of red that accompanied his approach.

"You there?" The new voice was low and tense.

"Get over here and give me that." The hitman's intonation wasn't exactly familiar, but Neal could recognise the flat, tonal quality and slightly Slavic inflection.

"We can't stay here. They'll be looking for him."

"I took care of his guard. No one's going to give a damn until shift change, which isn't for several hours."

"Jesus! You killed a Fed, and you want to stick around and play hide and seek? Are you insane?"

Neal mentally cheered the chickenhearted accomplice, sending supportive mental vibes - well, if you counted a fervent chant of 'go, go, go, go' as supportive.

Unfortunately, the killer was more resilient. "Just shut your mouth. I know what I'm doing. Stay here and make sure he doesn't sneak out the door. I'm going to search the other rooms."

"That emergency warning light doesn't exactly light up a room, and what I am supposed to do in the dark?" The reluctant co-conspirator sounded almost sulky.

"Use your ears. This guy's not a ghost."

As the red glow faded, Neal fixed his eyes on a dark spot on the ceiling, but he lost it as sparkly whorls danced in his peripheral vision. He hunkered down for the long haul, relieved that the search was starting elsewhere. Every minute expended was to his benefit, increasing the likelihood that his absence would be discovered and reported.

The assassin's assistant wasn't gifted with as much patience as his quarry. He shuffled about in movements of increasing nervousness, muttering to himself and finally lighting up a cigarette. The acrid smoke drifted towards Neal who wrinkled his nose in distaste. He idly fantasized about diving down on the unsuspecting villain like the falcon Mozzie had named him, before swooping out the exit. In reality, his right shoulder had gone to sleep and his thigh was cramping, so he was ignominiously stuck, more like a fledgling chick unable to leave the nest than the stylish bird of prey.

The only movement he ventured was to cautiously gather some of the dust and dirt that shared his space in copious amounts. He then stealthily rubbed in into his face and exposed clothing. In the dim glow of the LED light, the camouflage it offered could mean the difference between safety and discovery.

The blood-warm glow was an appropriate indication that the killer had returned. "Put that damn thing out." It was a snarl of bitter frustration. "No, pick it up, you idiot. No one's going to believe that Caffrey killed his watch dog and did a runner if your DNA is scattered here for even the stupidest flatfoot to find."

"You haven't found him have you?"

"No, but the little bastard's here somewhere. Why else would he go to the bother of breaking all the lights."

"If he's scarpered, the cops will be on us like a ton of bricks. They could be surrounding the place right now. We've got to get out of here."

"If he'd got out, they'd already be here."

"Well, we're not going to find him with that stupid light. He could be behind that pillar over there, and we wouldn't see him."

"Between the two of us, we are going to search every inch of this place."

At this relentless pronouncement, Neal's stomach looped a slow barrel-roll of dread, since a persistent search would almost certainly find him. He was forced to amend his opinion of the hitman - he was very professional as he worked out a complicated grid pattern that would thoroughly search the facility and also ensure that Neal had no opportunity to double back. Neal estimated that he had maybe fifteen minutes before they reached him. It was possible that if he could edge along to the end of the pipe, he would be out of range of the weak light and remain undiscovered, but even the slightest squeak of a pipe would betray his location.

With grim and almost fatalistic determination, he decided that he would not descend of his own volition, but would force them to shoot him where he lay. Even if they were able to remove his body, he would leave comprehensive evidence that he had not left the hospital voluntarily. His life was forfeit either way, but he could ensure that Peter's career wasn't destroyed and his own reputation remained untarnished for his friends. The world seemed to be moving in slow motion around him, only his mind working at a speed that obeyed the standard laws of physics.

Sound had become paramount, the key to all essential information since he couldn't visually make out any portion of his enemy, so when the elevator doors pinged once again, it was shockingly loud in his ears. There was a scuffle of movement below and the light was quickly extinguished. For a long moment, expectant silence reigned before being broken by a familiar voice.

"Neal? Are you here?" From down the corridor, unspoken worry dripped audibly from Peter's frustrated shout, and Neal's body turned to jelly from the pulverizing impact of sheer relief. Peter was aptly named. He was a rock, solidly dependable, a firm foundation and a steadying weight, his broad shoulders positively inviting responsibility and the easy assumption of authority. Neal could imagine him standing by the elevator, quivering like a dog on point, and reveled in the sensation of safety he associated with his partner.

This immediate gratitude for Peter's uncanny ability to hone in on his location like a dowsing stick to water morphed almost instantly to horror, and Neal's heart pitched over in his chest, slamming against his ribs at the appalled realisation that Peter was walking blindly into an ambush. The elevator seemed to have been locked down, the doors open, at the basement, but that just meant Peter would be nicely backlit, presenting an unmissable, silhouetted target as he came through the doorway, his eyes unable to pierce the darkness to the killers beyond. The hitmen had murdered one agent; they would have no compunction about adding to their total. It was as easy to frame Neal for two deaths as for one.

Fear squirmed through Neal's belly like a snake, and the small lunch he'd eaten hours ago threatened to make a repeat appearance. He prayed that Peter would leave, accepting the dark silence as a dead end. Neal was in an impossible situation, caught in a dilemma that brought his limbic system stumbling to a halt. If he did nothing, Peter would most likely die in a hail of bullets, but if Neal called out to warn him, not only would it reveal his own position and invite the same fate, but there was no chance that Peter would retreat and disappear harmlessly upstairs.

His efforts to will Peter away were, not surprisingly, ineffective. Something, probably the broken glass, had caught his attention. The next call was from much closer.

"Neal?


End file.
